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Con.ugiui^  of  nu/}ierous 
The /7'iendly  Contribuho/ts of  variotis  Writers; 

PRINCIPALLY    INTENDED  AS 

Designed  ajid  ErcTied. 

BY    R.  1>AGLEY, 

Author  of  'select  GE^MS  frovn  tfie  ^A:ATI(^V'e!&c 


'Av,  ayl  qiio  lie,  Hii  sliook  Lis   liead, 
'Its    een  a  lang-,  laiig-  time  indeed 
'Sia  I  l)eg-dii  to  Tiick  tlie  tlu'ead-, 

"All  cli/)kr  tlie  In-eatli: 
Tolk  m-um  do  sonietliiiig  tin-  tlieijplTread, 

'!Ari  so  mauii  Deatk. 
'Sax  tlionsaiid  veaxs  axe  near  Tiand  fled 
'Sin  I  was  to  th.e  "butcTiiiig'  lired, 
'Aii  m<my  a  sclieme  in  vain 'a  lieen  laid, 

'To  stap  or  scar  me' 

THE  SECOND  EDITION.  WTTH  CONSIDERABLE  ADDITIONS. 


1   OF  THE 


"^^o.. 


L  OND  UN: 
J.   ANDREWS.  167.  NEW  BOND  STREET 


DEATH'S    DOINGS: 


CONSISTING  OF  NUMEROUS 


ORIGINAL   COMPOSITIONS, 

IN  , 

THE 

FRIENDLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  OF  VARIOUS  WRITERS  ; 

PRINCIPALLY   INTENDED  AS    - 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

OF 

THIRTY    COPPER-PLATES, 

DESIGNED  AND  ETCHED 

BY  R.  DAGLEY, 

AUTHOR    OF   "  SELECT    GEMS    FROM   THE    ANTIQUE/'  &c. 


SECOND    EDITION, 

WITH     CONSIDERABLE    ADDITIONS. 


LONDON: 

J.  ANDREWS,  167,  NEW  BOND  STREET ;    AND  W.  COLE, 
10,  NEWGATE  STREET. 

1827. 


0  )?>cL 


FRANCIS  DOUCE,  Esq. 

WHOSE  UNWEARIED  RESEARCHES  AND  LIBERAL 
COMMUNICATIONS 

HAVE    SO    GREATLY    EXTENDED 

Cte  il:itoU)letige  of  Vivin 

AND    ENRICHED 

THIS    VOLUME 

IS, 

WITH  THE  GREATEST  RESPECT,  DEDICATED, 

BY    HIS 

OBLIGED  AND  OBEDIENT  SERVANT, 

RICHARD  DAG  LEY. 


S91'?38 


<» 


CONTENTS. 


Death  and  the  Poet     .     .     .     .  < 


[The  Articles  thus  marked,  *  as  well  as  the  Plates  which  they 
illustrate,  have  been  added  since  the  First  Edition  was  printed.^ 

Page 

Introduction R.  Dagley 1 

♦Death's  Sermon S.  Maunder"  .     ....     25 

f  H  A.  Driver,  Author  of 
The  Last  of  the  Graces    ■     •     ■]      ,,rm      .     i„  „« 

(      "  The  Arabs"    ....     37 

The  Poet Alfred 43 

Rev.   H.   Stebbing,    Au- 
thor of"  Network,"  ^c.  .     45 
L.  E.  L.   Author  of  "  The 

The  Pilgrim "\      Improvisatrice,"     "  The 

Golden  Violet,"  Sfc.     .     .     49 

The  Scroll L.  E.  L 51 

John  Fitzgerald  Pennie, 
Author  of  "  The  Royal 

The  Artist *\     Minstrel,"  an  epic  Poem, 

"  Rogvald,"  "  Scenes  in 
Palestine,"  Sfc.      ...     53 
Ephraim  Hardcastle, 
Death  and  the  Artist  .     .     .     .^^      Author  of  "  Wine   and 

Walnuts,"  Src 59 

The  Pursuits  of  Art     .     .     .     .     R.  Dagley 65 

TheGame  of  Life;   or,  Death.    ^^^^^^^    .....     69 

among  the  Cricketers    .     .  > 
*Verses  in  Praise  of  Cricket     .     Rev.  M.  Cotton     .     .     .  *72 
Death  and  the  Cricketer      .     .     Barnard  Batwell      .     .     73 


I 

.     ] 

1' 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Death  aud  the  Captive     .     .     .     Rev,  H.  Stebbing  ...     85 

The  Captive Alfred 89 

N. T.  Carrington,  Author 


*The  Gamester ..      ^ 

of  "  Dartmoor'    ...     91 

*Gaming R.  Montgomerv      ...     95 

The  Serenade L.  £.  L 109 

c  By    the    Author  of  "  The 
Death  at  the  Toilet      •     •     •      1       ,   „     ,   „  . 

I       Lollards,     cVc.        .     .     .113 

Lucy ;  or,  The  Masked  Ball     .     A.  T.  T 120 

*To  the  Mother Mrs.  Hofland    ....  137 

To  the  Memory  of  my  Infant  ^  ^   ,,  ,^^ 

^  •'  J  S.  Maunder 139 

Niece j 

The  Ball Mrs.  Hofland     .     .     .     .143 

Hypochondriana J.  Ollier 150 

Spleen Edward      .     .  ...  153 

The  Hypochondriac :  a  Tale  By  an  Eye-Witness     .     .  154 

Life's  Assurance T.  Harral 179 

The  Assurance  Office  .     .     .     .     W.  H.  Watts      ....  186 

The  Antiquary Cheviot  Tichburn       .     .  191 

Antiquarian  Researches  ,     .     .     R.  D 194 

Death  in  "  The  Ring"      .     .     .     S.  MaUxVder 203 

The  Fancy A  Querist 209 

*Death  :  a  Dramatic  Scene       .     H.  A.  Driver       ....  215 

The  Last  Bottle W.  Jerdan 225 

The  Bacchanalians      .     .     .     .     H.  D 232 

Elixir  Vit« W.  H.  Leeds 234 

*The  Shades M 243 

*Death  and  the  Warrior  .     .     .     Mrs.  Hemans 245 

*The  Warrior L.  E.  L 248 

C  David   Lester  Richard- 
*The  Warrior's  Farewell      .     .<      son,    Author   of  "  Son- 

(_      nets  and  other  Poems"    .  253 

<  T.      Hood,     Author     of 
*The  Volunteer <      "  Whims  and  Oddities," 

C      S,-e 256 

*The  Rival  Deaths  :    a  Battle  ^G.  M.  de  La  Vove,  of  the 

Scene ^     E.I.M.Coll  Addiscomhe  263 

The  Apoplectic  ......     A.  T.  T 269^ 


CONTENTS.  IX 

Page 

The  Complaint  of  the  Stomach  Anon 277 

Death  and  the  Hunter     .     .     .  J.  F.  Pennie 279 

The  Fatal  Gate H.  D 284 

The  Hunter's  Leap      .     ...  Simon  Surefoot      .     .     .  285 

*Childe  the  Hunter     .     .     .     .  N.  T.  Carrington  .     .     .  288 

The  Alchymist J.  J.  Leathwick  ....  296 

Contentment,  the  true  Alchvmv  i  „  ^ 

^  ,  ..  -^    -^  5  H.  D 297 

of  Life J 

Alchymy G.  Field 299 

Academic  Honours     ....  Barry  Cornwall  .    .     .  307 

The  Martyr  Student    .     .     .     .  N.  T.  Carrington  .     .    .  308 

The  Academic  Aspirant  .     .     .  J.  J.  Leathwick  .     .     .     .311 

Academic  Pursuits      ....  Proteus 313 

The  Empiric S.  Maunder 317 

mi_    ikiw        ^T^i-     •  i  By  the  Author  of "  Glances 

The  Men  of  Physic      ....]"'  ,     , ,      .. 

•'  i     from  the  Moon"     .     .     .  320 

*The  Lost  Treasure     ....  R.Montgomery     .     .     .  335 

Death  and  the  Gay  Charioteer .     J.  F.  Pennie 341 

The  Foreboding  :  a  Sketch  .     .     C.  Ollier 348 

Death  (a  Dealer)  to  his  Lon- 
don Correspondent   . 

♦Death  and  his  Allies       .     .     .     W.  H.  Leeds 365 

An  Auxiliary  of  Death    .     .     .     Hatchment 371 

Death  and  the  Lawyer:  a  Dia-  )  „   ,, 

J  S.  Maunder 377 

logue > 

Law Peter  Plaintiff     .     .     .  387 

*The  Angler Mrs.  Hemans 391 

*Death  and  the  Angler     .     .     .  Rev.  H.  Stebbing  .     .     .  393 

*Waltonian  Reminiscences  .     .     S.  Maunder 401 

Death,  the  Sage,  and  the  Fool  .  Randolph  Fitz-Eustace  .  423 

♦Sonnets.     To  Death  .     .     .     .  D.  L.  Richardson  .     .     .  430 

The  Sage  and  the  Fool     .     .     .     D 432 

The  Fool  and  the  Philosopher  : 


^  J.  Forbes 361 


a  Vision  ^^'^'^^ 434 

The  Epilogue,  and  Address  Re- " 

capitulatory.     Spoken    by  \  S.  Maunder 445 


Death  in  Character 


} 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 


1.  Death  Preaching, — to  face  the  Engraved  Title. 

2.  The  Poet              .... 

.     43 

3.  The  Pilgrim                .                 .                 .                 • 

.     49 

4.  The  Scroll            .... 

.     51 

5.  The  Artist  ..... 

.     53 

6.  The  Cricketer      .... 

.     69 

7.  The  Captive                .... 

.     85 

8.  The  Gamester      .                .                ,                . 

91 

9.  The  Serenade                               ... 

.   109 

10.  The  Toilet            .... 

.  113 

11.  The  Mother                  .                ,                 .                 . 

.  137 

12.  The  Hypochondriac 

.  150 

13.  Life's  Assurance         .                 .                 .                 . 

.  179 

14.  The  Antiquary     .... 

.  191 

15.  The  Champion 

.  203 

16.  Death  :    a  Dramatic  Scene 

.  215 

17.  The  Last  Bottle 

.  225 

18.  The  Warrior        .... 

.  245 

19.  The  Glutton 

.  269 

20.  The  Hunter          .... 

.  279 

21.  The  Alchymist             .                 . 

.  296 

22.  Academic  Honours 

.  307 

23.  The  Empiric 

.  317 

24.  The  Miser            .... 

.  335 

25.  The  Phaeton 

.  341 

26.  Death's  Register 

.  361 

27.  The  Lawyer 

.  377 

28.  The  Angler          .... 

.  391 

29.  The  Bubbles  of  Life  broken  by  Death 

.  423 

30.  The  Epilogue       .... 

445 

'<:>' 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


Although  a  Preface,  when  an  Introduc- 
tion is  given,  may  appear  too  much  like  going 
on  to  "  more  last  words,"  yet  an  apology 
may  be  found  in  an  author's  anxiety  to  ac- 
quit himself  on  every  ground  connected  with 
the  nature  and  character  of  his  publication : 
in  the  course  of  which  many  things  may  arise 
that  require  explanation. 

There  are  hopes,  fears,  and  wishes  to  be 
expressed ;  but  in  doing  this,  it  is  no  easy 
task  to  steer  between  the  extremes  of  pre- 
sumption and  servility.  Few  writers  could 
now  be  found  to  approach  the  tribunal  of  an 
intelligent  and  discerning  public  in  the  follow- 
ing strain : — 


Xll  PREFACE. 

"  My  fears  are  lighter  than  my  expecta- 
tions ;  I  wrote  to  please  myself,  and  I  pub- 
lish to  please  others  :  and  this  so  universally, 
that  I  have  not  wished  to  rob  the  critic  of 
his  censure,  or  my  friend  of  the  laugh.  *  * 
*  *  *  *  I  have  learnt,  that  w^here 
the  writer  would  please,  the  man  should  be 
unknown.  An  Author  is  the  reverse  of  all 
other  objects,  and  magnifies  by  distance,  but 
diminishes  by  approach.  His  private  attach- 
ments must  give  place  to  public  favour;  for 
no  man  can  forgive  his  friend  the  ill-natured 
attempt  of  being  thought  wiser  than  himself."* 

This  may  be  considered  a  curiosity  in  lite- 
rature, and  it  exhibits  a  perfect  contrast  to 
the  inflated  Dedications  and  pompous  Pre- 
faces of  the  period  in  which  it  appeared. 

In  the  volume  now  presented  to  the  Public, 
my  part  is  little  besides  that  of  having  pro- 

*  Preface  to  "  Fables  for  the  Female  Sex,"  fourth  edition:  London, 
printed  for  T.  Davies,  in  Russell  Street,  Co  vent  Garden,  and  J.  Dods- 
ley,  Pall  Mall,  1761. 


PREFACE.  Xm 

jected  the  work,  and  furnished  the  designs. 
It  is  to  the  kind  contributors  who  have  so 
amply  and  ably  illustrated  the  subjects  of 
my  pencil,  that  I  must  attribute  any  success 
that  may  attend  the  work ;  and  to  them  I 
embrace  this  opportunity  of  returning  my 
most  grateful  acknowledgments. 

Of  the  motives  of  some  for  concealing 
their  names,  it  does  not  become  me  to  speak ; 
though  it  is  hardly  possible  but  in  many  in- 
stances they  may  be  recognised.  "  By  their 
fruits  ye  shall  know  them." 

In  the  etchings,  I  have  endeavoured  to  show 
the  way  in  which  a  certain  class  of  writing- 
may  be  embellished,  without  incurring  the 
expense  of  those  laboured  and  highly  finished 
engravings,  which,  while  they  exhibit  the  ta- 
lents and  taste  of  our  native  artists,  in  many 
instances  exclude  the  works  they  ornament 
from  general  purchase. 

On  the  part  of  the  Publisher,  every  thing 


XIV  PREFACE. 

has  been  done  to  render  the  vohime  worthy 
the  attention  of  the  Public,  in  all  that  regards 
the  typographical  department. 

That  I  have  my  hopes  and  fears  on  the 
present  occasion,  I  will  not  deny  ;  and  though 
time  and  experience  have  done  much  to  damp 
the  ardour  of  the  one,  and  to  diminish  the 
effect  of  the  other,  yet  still  I  retain  enough  of 
deference  for  public  opinion,  to  render  me  so- 
licitous with  respect  to  the  result. 

R.  D. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


The  encouragement  given  to  this  volume 
having,  in  a  very  few  months,  rendered  a 
Second  Edition  necessary,  its  projector  feels 
himself  called  upon  gratefully  to  express  his 
sense  of  so  flattering  a  testimony  of  public 
approbation.  He  begs  also  to  acknowledge 
his  obligations  to  those  gentlemen  who,  in 
their  critical  notices,  have  taken  so  favour- 
able a  view  of  these  united  efforts  of  the  pen 
and  pencil;  in  fact,  the  generous  reception 
given  to  what  had  before  been  performed,  has 
operated  as  a  stimulus  for  him  to  render  this 
Second  Edition  more  worthy  of  such  liberal 
patronage  and  commendation.  With  this 
view,  he  has  added  several  new  designs, 
which,  like  the  former,  have  been  illustrated 
by  the  friendly  contributions  of  literary  coad- 
jutors;   to  all  of  whom  he  begs  to  return  his 


XVI  ADVERTISEMENT. 

unfeigned  thanks ;  being  vt^ell  assured  that  it 
is  mainly  to  their  kind  and  talented  Illustra- 
tions, that  "  Death's  Doings"  is  indebted  for 
so  great  a  degree  of  popularity.  When,  indeed 
(to  use  the  words  of  one  of  its  reviewers),  it 
is  recollected  that  "  the  designs  are  illustrated 
by  the  writing,  and  not  the  writing  by  the  de- 
signs, it  is  exceedingly  amusing — interesting 
even — to  observe  the  various  points  of  view  in 
which  the  same  pictorial  subject  may  be  un- 
derstood, imagined,  or  wrought  into  descrip- 
tion and  narrative,  by  persons  of  different  ge- 
nius and  powers." 

Considerable  interest  having  been  excited  in 
consequence  of  the  singular  Drawing  by  Van 
Venne  being  described  in  "  The  Introduc- 
tion" (page  11),  an  Etching  has  been  made 
from  it,  which  now  appears  as  the  Frontis- 
piece; and  it  is  hoped  that  it  cannot  fail  to  be 
regarded  as  a  curious  and  appropriate  em- 
bellishment. 


mt$iW$  BoinQ$* 


Ay,  ay !  quo'  he,  an'  shook  his  head. 
It's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 
Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread. 

An'  choke  the  breath : 
Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread. 

An'  so  maun  Death. 
Sax  thousand  yeare  are  near  hand  fled 
Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred. 
An'  mony  a  scheme  in  vain's  been  laid. 

To  stap  or  scar  me." 

Bi<7'ns. 


Death  came  dryvyng  after,  and  all  to  dust  pashed 
Kings  and  kaysers,  knightes  and  popes ; 
Many  a  lovely  lady,  and  lemman  of  knightes, 
Swoned  and  swelted  for  sorrowe  of  Death's  dyntes." 


Vision  of  Fierce  Plowman^  1350. 


DEATH'S    DOINGS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

It  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  in  this  our  day  of 
accumulated  literature,  to  start  any  thing  new  ;  yet, 
rather  than  close  their  labours  for  ''  lack  of  argu- 
ment," our  literary  adventurers  ransack  every  cor- 
ner for  subject  matter;  and,  to  stimulate  the  public 
appetite,  old  viands  are  served  up  in  new  dishes, 
either  of  plate,  china,  or  delf,  as  best  may  suit  the 
taste  or  the  means  of  the  bookish  epicure. 

How  far  the  subject  now  offered  may  be  relished 
by  the  generality,  remains  to  l)e  tried.  It  will  not 
want  the  seasoning  of  antiquity  to  recommend  it, 
being  nearly  as  old  as  the  Creation  ;  and,  if  a  judg- 
ment may  be  formed  from  the  number  of  works,  both 
literary  and  graphic,  which  have  appeared  in  ancient 
and  modern   times,   and  the  avidity  with  which  they 

B 


2  DEATH  S  DOINGS. 

have  been  received,  it  may  reasonably  be  expected, 
that  the  present  attempt  to  serve  up  a  sort  of  Gra- 
phic Olio,  with  suitable  garnishes  of  prose  and 
verse,  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  general 
reader ;  and  the  more  so,  as  the  endeavour  has  been 
to  give  (if  not  altogether  a  new),  at  least  a  more 
appropriate  reading  to  the  old  version  of  the  Dance 
OF  Death. 

There  is  little  to  apprehend  in  the  way  of  objection, 
from  any  application  of  the  designs  contained  in  the 
work  to  individual  concerns  or  pursuits,  as — 

"  All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves;" 

and  there  will  be  no  want  of  claimants  to  the  heir- 
looms either  of  safety  or  of  longevity.  At  any  rate, 
the  greater  part  of  mankind  will  assume  the  privi- 
lege of  exemption  from  such  incidental  casualties  as 
are  pointed  out  in  the  course  of  the  illustrations  here 
exhibited,  and  will  find  a  clause  in  their  own  favour. 
Thus,  for  example^  the  sportsman  will  readily  ob- 
serve,— 

"  I  have  hunted,  leapt  gates,  hedges,  and  ditches, 
and  cleared  all  that  came  in  my  way ;  but,  then,  my 
skill  and  my  horse  brought  me  safe  ofi".     The  foolish 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

fellow  that  broke  his  neck  the  other  day  could  ex- 
pect nothing  else ;  instead  of  minding-  what  he  was 
about  in  taking  his  leap,  he  was  looking  another 
way  ;  and,  then,  the  hack  he  rode  !" 

**  That  poor  devil  of  an  artist,"  observes  one  of 
the  same  profession,  "  laboured  his  pictures  till  he 
was  nearly  blind,  toiling  till  nature  became  ex- 
hausted ;  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  breathe  the  vital 
air ;  the  effluvia  of  his  colours  had  entirely  pene- 
trated his  system ;  and  it  is  no  wonder  he  fell  a 
victim  to  his  confinement  and  his  exertions  toge- 
ther." 

"  Ned is  gone  at  last,"  says  a  bon-vivant 

to  his  companion ;  "  but  it  is  not  surprising, — he 
was  a  careless  drinker ;  I  told  him  his  wine-merchant 
sold  him  poison." 

In  this,  or  in  some  such  way,  all  will  argue  in 
favour  of  themselves  ;  while  the  machine  of  life 
drives  on  heedlessly  and  rapidly.  It  is  true,  the 
check-string  may  occasionally  be  drawn  by  the  ob- 
serving traveller,  to  point  out  to  his  fellow  pas- 
sengers some  remarkable  spot,  stamped  by  some 
striking   event   connected   with   mortality ;    but   the 

B  2 


4  DEATH  S  DOINGS. 

pause  will  be  brief,  and  the  vehicle  will  again  be  in 
motion  with  as  little  care  as  before  it  was  stopped. 
And  this,  in  some  measure,  must  be  the  case  while 
we  continue  to  be  creatures  of  this  world :  even  the 
gloomy  ascetic  will  sometimes  steal  a  look  from  his 
cloisters  or  his  cell  upon  the  beauties  of  the  creation, 
and  become  a  momentary  sceptic  to  his  monastic 
notions,  and  pine  at  the  vegetative  character  of  his 
own  existence. 

With  whatever  success  the  labours  of  the  moral- 
ist, the  philosopher,  or  the  preacher,  may  have  been 
attended  in  bringing  into  view  the  skeleton  remains 
of  the  human  frame  as  an  emblem  of  Death,  to  warn 
and  awaken  mankind  to  a  sense  of  the  condition  to 
which  they  must  come  at  last,  the  satirist  has  sel- 
dom failed  of  exciting  attention  to  the  characteristic 
structure  of  this  human  machinery,  stripped  of  those 
lineaments  and  fair  proportions  which  in  life  were 
its  charm  and  pride ;  but  with  this  difference,  that 
his  views  of  the  subject  have  ever  tended  to  the  lu- 
dicrous. 

Such  appears  to  have  been  the  case  even  in  those 
days  of  superstitious  ig-norance  when  the  minds  of 
men   were  subject    to   the   domination    of  monkish 


INTRODUCTION.  O 

power  ;  for,  as  soon  as  the  first  impression  of  alarm 
made  by  the  ghastly  phantom,  as  exhibited  in  their 
churches,  was  over,  and  the  object  became  familiar, 
— ridicule  took  place  of  fear ;  and  farcical  represen- 
tations of  Death  on  the  stage  and  by  the  pencil  suc- 
ceeded, in  numbers  and  extent,  perhaps,  beyond 
those  of  any  other  subject. 

One  of  these  farcical  moralities  is  hinted  at  by 
our  immortal  bard,  in  his  play  of  "  Measure  for 
Measure :" — 

"  Merely  thou  art  Death's  fool : 
For  him  thou  labourest,  by  thy  flight,  to  shun, 
And  yet  runn'st  toward  him  still." 

This  passage  is  explained  in  a  note,  thus  : — "  In 
the  simplicity  of  the  ancient  shows  upon  our  stage, 
it  was  common  to  bring  in  two  figures,  one  repre- 
senting a  fool,  and  the  other.  Death  or  Fate ;  the 
turn  and  contrivance  of  the  piece  was,  to  make 
the  fool  lay  many  stratagems  to  avoid  Death,  which 
yet  brought  him  more  immediately  into  the  jaws 
of  it." 

It  is  more  than  probable  that  Shakspeare  had 
seen  and  considered  many  of  the  paintings  and  de- 
signs on  the  subject  of  Death,  and  with  his  powerful 


6  death's  doings. 

touch  concentrated  the  spirit  of  all  that  had  been 
said  or  done  in  the  various  works  then  extant,  still 
keeping  up  the  character  of  the  burlesque  united 
with  the  deepest  pathos  : — 

"  For  within  the  hollow  crown 
That  rounds  the  mortal  temples  of  a  king, 
Keeps  Death  his  court :  and  there  the  antic  sits, 
Mocking  his  state  and  grinning  at  his  pomp ; 
Allowing  him  a  breath,  a  little  scene 
To  monarchize,  be  fear'd,  and  kill  with  looks ; 
Infusing  him  with  self  and  vain  conceit. 
As  if  this  flesh,  which  walls  about  his  life, 
Were  brass  impregnable  -.  and,  humoured  thus. 
Comes  at  the  last,  and  with  a  little  pin 
Bores  through  his  castle  walls,  and — farewell  king !" 

The  same  play  has  the  following  monitory  pas- 
sage, equally  expressive  of  the  frailty  and  folly  of 
man,  who, — 

"  Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured, — 
His  glassy  essence," — 

is  apt  to  play  the  game  of  life  with  too  much  con- 
fidence. 

Some  there  are  who  make  Death  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  life :  shutting  their  eyes  on  the  fair  face  of 
nature,  they  think  a  snare  is  set  in  every  beauteous 
object  by  which  they  are  surrounded,  and  plunge  at 
once  into  the  gloom  of  solitude,   lest  the  light  of 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

heaven  should  dazzle  their  sight  and  darken  their 
understanding,  and  work  them  perdition  by  tempting 
to  the  indulgence  of  those  feelings  it  was  meant  to 
inspire  : — 

"  And  thus,  in  one  continued  strife, 
'Twixt  fear  of  Death  and  love  of  life," 

they  pass  their  existence  in  a  state  of  deadening 
apathy  or  of  feverish  self-denial ;  immolating  the 
charities  of  life  and  the  best  affections  of  the  heart 
at  the  shrine  of  superstition.  True,  the  tenure  of 
our  being  cannot  be  beneficially  held  without  occa- 
sionally adverting  to  the  terms  on  which  it  has  been 
granted ;  and  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  call  in  aid 
the  admonitions  of  the  wise  and  the  reflecting,  to 
bring  our  truant  thoughts  to  a  proper  estimate  of  life. 

In  this  view,  most  of  the  designs  of  skeleton  forms 
have  been  presented  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
careless  and  unthinking;  but,  as  has  been  before  ob- 
served, few  of  them  have  been  so  managed  as  not  to 
border  on  the  ludicrous.  Of  their  capability  of  and 
tendency  to  the  caricature,  a  very  recent  instance 
appeared  in  some  examples  of  death-like  figures  en- 
gaged in  a  variety  of  occupations,  as  gambling, 
dancing,  boxing,  &c.  &c.  These  designs  were 
chalked  on  a  wall  bordering  the  road  from  Turnham 


8  death's  doings. 

Green  towards  Kew  Bridge  ;  they  were  drawn  of  the 
natural  size,  and  displayed,  on  the  part  of  the  un- 
known *  artist,  no  small  skill  in  composition  and 
character.  Of  the  artist's  intention  there  can  be  no 
question  :  it  was  to  exhibit  forms  the  most  strikingly 
grotesque.  But  they  are  now  swept  away,  like 
many  other  efforts  of  art,  to  give  place  to  the  names 
and  nostrums  of  the  charlatans  of  the  day. 

The  subject  of  Death  has  continued  to  employ  the 
pen  and  the  pencil,  with  more  or  less  of  character, 
down  to  the  present  time ;  though  the  productions  of 
recent  date  possess  less  point,  and  have,  perhaps, 
more  of  the  grotesque  than  works  more  remote,  and 
do  not,  in  their  graphic  form,  exhibit  the  higher  qua- 
lities of  art,  which  are  seen  in  the  performances  of 
the  old  masters  ;  but  are  principally  addressed  to 
the  eye  and  understanding  of  the  many,  rather  than 
to  those  of  the  artist  or  amateur.  It  should  appear, 
however,  from  the  reception  and  extensive  sale  of 
some  of  these  subjects,  that  they  have  been  equally 


*  The  editor  of  "  The  Tmes,"  in  alluding  to  this  passage,  observed 
that  these  chalk  sketches  were  made  by  a  nephew  of  Mr.  Baron  Gar- 
row,  who  at  that  time  was  living  in  unenviable  retirement  nearly  op- 
posite the  scene  of  his  early  morning  operations ;  but  that  the  gentle- 
man had  fortunately,  some  time  since,  obtained  a  situation  in  India. 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

acceptable  to  the  present  as  they  were  to  past  times. 
Among  the  most  striking  and  popular  designs  of  this 
class,  are  two  which  have  long  occupied  a  place  in 
the  print-shop  in  St.  Paul's  Church  Yard ;  and  in 
which  the  skeleton  shape  appears  as  one  half  of  a 
gorgeously  dressed  human  form.  These  prints 
represent  a  male  and  female  thus  powerfully 
contrasted,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  hold  out 
as  perfect  an  example  as  can  well  be  imagined 
to  show  us  what  we  are,  and  to  warn  us  what  we 
are  to  be. 

Another  specimen  of  the  monitory  kind  is  a  repre- 
sentation of  a  heathen  philosopher,  contemplating 
the  structure  of  a  human  skeleton,  and  thence  in- 
ferring the  existence  of  a  Deity. 

Of  the  more  whimsical  and  pointed  of  these  moral 
lessons,  is  one  where  a  man  is  draining  an  enormous 
bowl,  and  Death  stands  ready  to  confirm  the  title  of 
the  print,—''  The  Last  Drop." 

There  is  also,  among  the  varieties  of  this  sort,  an 
etching  representing  a  gay  couple  visiting  a  tomb. 
It  is  called,  "  An  Emblem  of  a  Modern  Marriage :" 
in  the  background  of  the  piece  is  a  view  of  a  noble 


10  death's  doings. 

mansion,  behind  which  appears  a  rising  ground ; 
beneath  the  print  are  the  following  lines  : — 

"  No  smiles  for  us  the  godhead  wears, 
His  torch  inverted,  and  his  face  in  tears;" 

answering  to  the  figure  of  a  Cupid  in  the  act  of  flight, 
which  the  artist  has  also  introduced  into  his  sub- 
ject. This  etching  is  the  performance  of  a  lady, 
Mrs.  Hartley,  the  wife  of  D.  Hartley,  Esq.,  who 
constructed  a  building  on  Putney  Common,  which 
he  rendered  incombustible.  The  original  was 
sketched  with  a  diamond  on  a  pane  of  glass,  and 
the  print  published  in  1775.  There  can  be  little 
doubt  that  this  curious  design  had  a  reference  to 
some  individual  of  the  time ;  but  its  application 
might  be  made  to  every  unhappy  and  fatal  marriage 
that  has  taken  place,  or  may  take  place,  any  where 
and  at  any  time. 

These  later  productions  (as  was  before  observed) 
possess  little  of  art  in  the  composition,  or  skill  in 
the  execution,  to  recommend  them,  though  some  of 
them  have  probably  outlived  the  expectations  of  the 
inventors.  It  was  for  the  artists  of  an  earlier  period 
to  combine  in  these  subjects  every  quality  of  paint- 
ing, whether  of  design,  composition,  character,  or 
expression. 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

An  example  of  excellence  in  this  way,  is  a  draw- 
ing from  the  collection  of  the  late  Paul  Sandby, 
R.  A.,  where  Death  is  exhibited  as  preaching  from  a 
charnel-house,  amidst  skulls  and  bones ;  another 
skeleton  form  is  introduced  as  making  a  back  on 
which  to  rest  the  book  from  which  the  phantom  is 
discoursing ;  and,  though  highly  ludicrous  in  point 
of  character,  the  groups  and  composition  are  in  the 
best  style  of  art.  The  auditors  of  the  grim  preacher 
are  of  every  age  and  class,  and  are  happily  con- 
trasted :  the  peasant  and  the  ruler,  the  matron  and 
the  gayly  attired  female,  the  cavalier  and  the  person 
of  low  degree,  all  disposed  with  skill  in  their  ap- 
propriate and  varied  postures  of  attraction.  Part  of 
a  cathedral-like  building  forms  the  background ; 
the  design  is  from  the  pencil  ofVan  Venne,*  and, 

*  In  the  first  edition  of  this  work,  Van  Venne  is  mentioned  as  sy- 
nonymous with  Otho  Vsenius.  A  similar  error  exists  both  in  Pilking- 
ton  and  in  Bryan ;  in  whose  Dictionaries  of  Painters,  under  the  article 
"  Van,"  "  Vsenius  Otho,  or  Van  Venne,"  is  written. 

By  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Douce,  an  opportunity  is  now  allowed  of 
distinguishing  the  individuals,  and  showing  the  character  of  the  artist 
from  whose  design  is  the  etched  frontispiece  to  the  present  edition  of 
"  Death's  Doings." 

"  Van  Venne,  or,  as  he  writes  himself,  Adr.  Vaiide  Venne,  has  not  the 
smallest  connexion  with  Otho  Vaenius,  who  was  a  Flemish  painter,  but 
the  fonner  a  Dutch  painter  and  poet.  He  was  bora  at  Delft,  about 
1590,  and  died  in  1650.  He  usually  painted  in  black  and  white,  and 
seems  to  have  worked  chiefly  in  Denmark,  where  his  paintings  were 
much  esteemed,  and  are  now  very  rarely  to  be  seen.      He  appears  to 


12  death's  doings. 

from  the  picturesque  costume  and  character  of  the 
composition,  would  do  credit  to  the  talents  of  the 
best  artists  of  that  period. 

Mr.  D'Israeli,  in  his  "  Theory  of  the  Skeleton," 
has  shown  that  a  tendency  similar  to  that  which 
has  just  been  noticed  pervaded  many  of  the  writers 
on  the  subject  of  Death. 

"  When,"  observes  this  ingenious  and  intelligent 
author,  "  the  artist  succeeded  in  conveying  to  the 
eye  the  most  ludicrous  notions  of  Death,  the  poet 
also  discovered  in  it  a  fertile  source  of  the  burlesque. 
The  curious  collector  is  acquainted  with  many 
volumes  where  the  most  extraordinary  topics  have 
been  combined  with  this  subject.  They  made  the 
soul  and  body  debate  together,  and  ridiculed  the 
complaints  of  a  damned  soul !     The  greater  part  of 


have  made  many  of  the  designs  for  the  celebrated  and  extremely  popu- 
lar work,  entitled,  '*  Catz's  Emblems,"  but  he  never  etched  or  en- 
graved. He  likewise  published  a  set  of  emblems  under  his  own  name, 
with  poetry  by  himself,  1635,  4to.  His  name  on  the  prints  stands 
Adrian  Vande  Vemie. 

Otho  Vaenius,  the  master  of  Rubens,  was  also  distinguished  for  his 
emblematical  designs,  and  appears,  from  a  painting  of  his  in  the  pos- 
session of  Mr.  Douce,  to  have  exercised  his  pencil  in  a  similar  way  to 
Hans  Holbeins.  In  this  painting,  Death  is  represented  as  intimating 
his  approach  to  an  old  man,  by  the  tinkling  of  a  musical  instrument. 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

the  poets  of  the  time  were  always  composing  on  the 
subject  of  Death  in  their  humorous  pieces. 

"  Of  a  work  of  this  nature,  a  popular  favourite 
was  long  the  one  entitled,  '  Le  Faut  Mourir,  et  les 
Excuses  Inutiles  qu'n  apporte  a  cette  Necessity  ;  a 
tout  en  vers  burlesques,  1556.'  Jaques  Jaques,  a 
canon  of  Aubrun,  was  the  writer,  who  humorously 
says  of  himself,  that  he  gives  his  thoughts  just  as 
they  lie  on  his  heart,  without  dissimulation;  'fori 
have  nothing  double  about  me  except  my  name.  I 
tell  some  of  the  most  important  truths  in  laughing, 
— it  is  for  thee  d'y  penser  tout  a  bon.'  " 

Mr.  D'Israeli  goes  on  to  remark, — "  Our  canon 
of  Aubrun,  in  facetious  rhymes,  and  with  the  naivete 
of  expression  which  belongs  to  his  age,  and  an 
idiomatic  turn  fatal  to  a  translator,  excels  in  plea- 
santry ;  his  haughty  hero  condescends  to  hold  very 
amusing  dialogues  with  all  classes  of  society,  and 
to  confound  their  excuses  inutiles.  The  most  miser- 
able of  men, — the  galley-slave,  the  mendicant,  alike 
would  escape  when  he  appears  to  them.  '  Were  I 
not  absolute  over  them,'  Death  exclaims,  '  they 
would  confound  me  with  their  long  speeches ;  but 
I  have  business,  and  must  gallop  on  !'  " 


14  death's  doings. 

Our  monumental  effigies,  where  the  figure  of 
Death  is  introduced,  are  not  entirely  free  from  a 
cast  of  the  ludicrous,  though,  from  the  nature  and 
character  of  sculpture,  fewer  offences  this  way  are 
exhibited.  Like  the  muse  of  history,  the  dignity  of 
sculpture  would  be  lessened  in  the  service  of  comedy: 
the  temple  and  the  tomb  are  its  proper  sphere ;  dei- 
ties, heroes,  statesmen,  and  poets,  are  the  objects  it 
contemplates ;  and  the  ideal  perfection  of  grace  and 
beauty  is  its  principal  aim. 

Under  the  hand  of  sculpture,  the  familiar  may, 
however,  in  some  degree  become  exalted,  and  mo- 
dern costume  be  made  subservient  to  the  purposes 
of  fine  art.  But  it  requires  the  skill  of  a  Roubilliac, 
a  Chantrey,  or  a  Baily,  to  mould  folds  and  cast 
form  into  that  character  which  judgment  and  taste 
sanction  or  approve. 

Of  the  power  to  mould  and  fashion  form  and  cos- 
tume into  the  character  of  grandeur,  Roubilliac's 
figure  of  Handel,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  is  a  strik- 
ing example ;  and,  while  contemplating  the  dignified 
attitude  of  the  portrait,  the  arrangement  of  the  ac- 
cessories, and  its  composition  throughout,  it  is  im- 
possible to  imagine  it  could  be  improved,  even  by 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

the   introduction  of  what  is  termed  the  classic  in 
art, — the  costume  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

In  this  artist's  monument  of  Lady  Nightingale, 
he  has  necessarily  employed  a  drapery  suitable  to 
the  introduction  of  an  ideal  character, — that  of 
Death ;  and  has,  in  his  personification  of  the  phan- 
tom, enveloped  the  figure  with  a  loosened  drapery, 
in  order,  it  may  be  readily  conceived,  as  much  as 
possible  to  avoid  the  skeleton  shape. 

The  same  artist  has  introduced,  in  the  monument 
of  William  Hargrave,  one  of  the  finest  allegorical 
representations  that  has  ever  been  imagined, — that 
of  Time's  victory  over  Death :  yet,  here  the  skill 
with  which  the  bony  structure  of  the  struggling  ske- 
leton is  executed,  is  apt  to  attract  the  regard  of  the 
vulgar  (like  the  deceptive  in  painting),  rather  than 
the  sublimity  and  character  of  the  composition,  and 
its  reference  to  the  immortality  of  the  soul  and  the 
resurrection  of  the  body. 

While  thus  treating  of  subjects  connected  with 
the  Abbey  of  Westminster,  it  is  impossible  not 
greatly  to  regret,  that  from  the  inspection  of  these 
monumental  remains — these  eftbrts  of  sculptured  art. 


1()  death's  doings. 

past  and  present,  the  public  should  be  barred,  with- 
out the  payment  of  an  admission  fee ;  a  regulation 
which,  while  it  debases  the  character  of  a  national 
exhibition,  excludes  the  generality  of  the  people, 
and  defeats  every  legitimate  purpose  for  which 
these  memorials  of  the  great  and  good  were  erected. 
An  additional  evil  is,  that  the  visitor  is  hurried  over 
a  space  and  spectacle  whose  very  essence  is  des- 
troyed if  not  traversed  and  seen  with  freedom,  quiet, 
and  calm  contemplation.  Under  the  present  regula- 
tions of  abbey  economy,  the  charm  is  almost  dis- 
solved which  would  otherwise  preserve  the  memory 
of  those  heroic  achievements  of  our  fleets  and  ar- 
mies,— those  labours  of  the  statesman  and  the  legis- 
lator, of  the  man  of  science  and  the  poet,  all  of  rank 
and  of  literature,  to  which  these  testimonials  of  a 
nation's  gratitude  have  been  raised,  by  public  or  pri- 
vate expense.  It  is  not  only  interring  the  body,  but 
burying  the  monument  too  ;  and  the  lament  has  been 
hardly  more  for  the  departed,  than  for  the  labours  of 
art,  the  value  of  which  is  so  much  depreciated  by 
this  miserable  expedient  to  obtain  money.  It  is  hu- 
miliating to  reflect  on  the  debasing  character  which 
the  mischievous  atrocities  of  a  few  ignorant  or  un- 
thinking individuals  have,  in  some  degree,  brought 
upon  the  nation  at  large,  and  which,  it  is  said,  have 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

led  to  these  obnoxiou§  regulations,  and  given  us,  in 
the  eyes  of  foreigners,  at  once  the  stamp  of  a  mer- 
cenary and  a  barbarous  people  ;  but  it  is,  however, 
to  be  hoped  that,  with  an  increasing  knowledge  of 
the  fine  arts,  the  progress  of  instruction,  and  the 
consequent  prevalence  of  good  sense,  a  way  may  be 
found  to  protect  these  records  of  our  country's  glory 
and  talent,  without  imposing  a  tax  upon  those  who 
might  benefit  by  such  examples  in  the  endeavour  to 
imitate  them. 

From  the  tombs  and  monuments  within,  is  but  a 
step  to  those  without ;  from  the  church  to  the  church- 
yard— whence,  as  the  poet  says, — "  The  voice  of 
nature  cries."  But,  like  many  other  poetical  asser- 
tions, this  is  somewhat  equivocal,  for  little  de- 
pendence can  be  placed  on  these  "  frail  memorials," 
many  of  which,  like  the  old  moralities,  are  calcu- 
lated to  excite  a  laugh  rather  than  serious  and  sober 
reflections.  In  some  places,  indeed,  scarce  a  stone 
is  raised  but  a  jest  is  raised  with  it. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  touch  on  the  subject  of 
epitaphs,  but  a  train  of  uncouth  rhymes  follow,  in 
the  shape  of  serious  foolery  or  ignorant  burlesque. 
Nor  is  this  folly   confined   to    the    obscure  village 

c 


18  death's  doings. 

dormitory,  or  to  times  long  past:  there  is  scarcely 
a  churchyard  within  the  metropolis  or  its  suburbs, 
but  will  afford  some  modern  examples  of  gross  ig- 
norance or  inflated  nonsense  ;  such  as, — "  God  has 
chosen  her  as  a  pattern  for  the  other  angels." 

This  exquisite  piece  of  extravagance,  to  say  no 
more  of  it,  was  intended  doubtless  to  convey  an  ex- 
alted idea  of  the  departed ;  no  reflection  whatever 
being  made  on  the  absurdity  of  the  hyperbole. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  men  should  be  so 
very  anxious  in  life  that  their  remains  should  not  be 
disturbed  after  death,  and  yet  take  no  heed  of  what 
may  be  said  upon  their  tombs  ;  men  write  their  auto- 
biographies, and  why  not  their  own  epitaphs? — 
Virgil  did.  Or  why  not  have  recourse  to  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield's  plan,  who  wrote  his  wife's  epitaph 
when  living,  commending  in  it  the  virtues  he  wished 
her  to  practise  ?  At  all  events,  it  might  be  imagined 
that  either  the  pulpit  or  the  press  would  have  come 
in  aid  to  check  this  prevalent  absurdity  ;  that,  if 
men  chose  to  make  **  life  a  jest,"  they  should  not  be 
permitted  to  record  one  on  their  tombs. 

But,  not  to   dwell  longer  on  churchyard  regula- 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

tioris,  let  us  take  a  brief  view  of  mortality  as  ex- 
hibited under  the  refined  sentiment  of  the  Greek  my- 
thology and  of  Grecian  art. 

"  The  ancients  contemplated  death  without  terror, 
and  met  it  with  indifi'erence.  It  was  the  only  divi- 
nity to  which  they  never  sacrificed,  convinced  that 
no  human  being  could  turn  aside  its  stroke.  They 
raised  altars  to  Favour,  to  Misfortune,  to  all  the 
evils  of  life  ;  for  these  might  change.  But,  though 
they  did  not  court  the  presence  of  Death  in  any 
shape,  they  acknowledged  its  tranquillity  in  the 
beautiful  fables  of  their  allegorical  religion.  Death 
was  the  daughter  of  Night  and  the  sister  of  Sleep, 
and  ever  the  friend  of  the  unhappy. 

"  If  the  full  light  of  revelation  had  not  yet  broken 
on  them,  it  can  hardly  be  denied  that  they  had  some 
glimpse  and  a  dawn  of  the  life  to  come,  from  the 
many  allegorical  inventions  which  describe  the 
transmigration  of  the  soul : — a  butterfly  on  the  ex- 
tremity of  a  lamp, — Love  mth  a  melancholy  air, 
leaning  on  an  inverted  torch,  elegantly  denoted  the 
cessation  of  life."* 

*  J.  D'Israeli's  Curiosities  of  Literature,  Second  Series,  vol.  2. 
c2 


20  death's  doings. 

It  was  in  contemplating  this  touching  and  appro- 
priate representation,  as  it  appears  in  an  engraved 
gem,  that  Mr.  Croly  produced  those  beautiful  lines 
in  his  Illustrations  of  Antique  Gems: — 

"  Spirit  of  the  drooping  wing, 

And  the  ever-weeping  eye. 
Thou  of  all  earth's  kings  art  king  : 
Empires  at  thy  footstool  lie. 
Beneath  thee  strew'd. 
Their  multitude 
Sink  like  waves  upon  the  shore, — 
Storms  shall  never  rouse  them  more . 

"  What's  the  grandeur  of  the  earth 

To  the  grandeur  of  thy  throne  > 
Riches,  glory,  beauty,  birth, 

To  thy  kingdom  all  have  gone. 
Before  thee  stand 
The  wondrous  band, — 
Bards,  heroes,  side  by  side, 
Who  darken'd  nations  when  they  died ! 

"  Earth  hath  hosts,  but  thou  canst  show 
Many  a  million  for  her  one  : 
Through  thy  gate  the  mortal  flow 
Has  for  countless  years  roll'd  on. 
Back  from  the  tomb 
No  step  has  come ; 
There  fix'd,  till  the  last  thunder's  sound 
Shall  bid  thy  prisoners  be  unbound." 

Beautiful  as  the  emblem  of  Mortality  in  the 
weeping  infant,  with  the  inverted  torch,  certainly 
is,  that  of  the  butterfly  is  no  less  apt  in  representing 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

the  soul.  The  purity  and  lightness  of  its  nature,  its 
ambrosial  food,  the  gayety  and  splendour  of  its  co- 
lours,— above  all,  its  winged  liberty  when  bursting 
from  its  tomblike  confinement,  in  which  it  appeared 
to  sleep  the  sleep  of  Death,  afford  so  powerful  a 
contrast  exhibited  in  the  same  creature,  that  it  could 
not  fail  to  strike  the  intelligent  among  the  heathen 
world  as  a  fit  symbol  of  Immortality. 

It  is  no  very  extravagant  stretch  of  fancy,  to  ima- 
gine the  souls  of  some  gifted  individuals  embodied 
agreeably  to  their  intellectual  endowments.  What 
a  contrast  might  then  be  seen  to  the  low,  grublike, 
insignificant  forms  under  which  many  a  genius  has 
been  cloaked,  in  the  exalted,  noble,  and  imposing 
shapes  which  they  would  then  assume ;  while  others, 
whose  vacant  minds  have  been  hid  beneath  a  fair 
exterior,  would  sink  in  the  scale,  and  become  in  ap- 
pearance the  insects  or  reptiles  best  suited  to  their 
real  character. 

Neither  is  this  "  considering  the  matter  too  curi- 
ously;" for  it  is  in  perfect  accordance  with  the  apos- 
tle's views  of  the  resurrection. 

"  But  some  men  will  say, — how  are  the  dead 
raised  up  ?  and  with  what  body  do  they  come  ? 


22  death's  doings. 

"  Thou  fool,  that  which  thou  sovvest  is  not  quick- 
ened except  it  die." 

And  then  he  thus  goes  on, — 

"There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory 
of  the  moon,  and  another  glory  of  the  stars  ;  for  one 
star  differeth  from  another  star  in  glory. 

"  So  also  is  the  resurrection  of  the  body :  it  is 
sown  in  corruption,  it  is  raised  in  incorruption ;  it 
is  sown  in  dishonour,  it  is  raised  in  glory ;  it  is  sown 
in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power." 

With  this  exalted  view  of  the  subject,  the  follow- 
ing serious  and  appropriate  lines,  from  the  pen  of 
Mrs.  Hemans,  may  not  inaptly  conclude  the  Intro- 
duction to  a  work,  which,  varied  and  miscellaneous 
as  it  is,  yet  in  its  general  character  is  calculated  to 
lead  the  mind  to  a  contemplation  of 

"  THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH." 

"  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  as  the  North-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death ! 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

"  Day  is  for  mortal  care. 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer. 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  Mightiest  of  the  Earth ! 

"  The  Banquet  hath  its  hour. 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  for  Grief's  o'erwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine. 

"  Youth  and  the  opening  Rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay. 

And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

"  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  North-wind's  breath. 

And  stars  to  set — but  all. 
Thou  hast  a// seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  ? 

"  We  know  when  moons  shall  wane. 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  Autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

"  Is  it  when  Spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ? — 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die ! 

*'  Thou  art  where  billows  foam ; 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home. 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth,  and  thou  art  there. 


24  death's  doings. 

"  Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest ; 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

"  Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  North-wind's  breath. 

And  stars  to  set — but  all. 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death !" 


P.  S. — While  the  early  part  of  this  Introduction  was  at' press, 
but  not  soon  enough  to  insert  it  in  its  proper  place,  we  were  told  by  a 
gentleman,  who  assures  us  that  the  correctness  of  his  information  is  not 
to  be  doubted,  that  the  person  who  made  the  chalk  sketches  of  the 
skeleton  figures  on  the  wall  leading  to  Kew  Bridge,  was  a  Mr.  Samuel 
Ponsonby  Palmer,  Midshipman,  R.  N.  Our  informant  states,  that 
"  Mr.  Palmer  entered  the  navy  about  the  year  1810,  on  board  the  Vic- 
tory, Sir  J.  Saumarez,  and,  having  served  about  five  years,  he,  on 
quitting  it,  came  to  Hammersmith,  where  he  resided  during  the  years 
1816,  17,  and  18.  In  the  latter  period  he  sketched  his  Dance  of  Death 
on  the  wall  on  the  left  side  of  the  road  going  towards  Kew  Bridge. 
On  the  8th  of  September,  1824,  this  young  man  was  unfortunately 
drowned  in  the  river  Thames,  by  the  upsetting  of  a  sailing  boat." 

The  Editor  of  The  Times,  who  stated  that  these  sketches  were  the 
work  of  the  nephew  of  Mr.  Baron  Garrow,  doubtless  derived  his  infor- 
mation from  a  source  which  he  conceived  might  be  relied  on  ;  but  the 
foregoing  statement  amounts  almost  to  a  flat  contradiction  of  it,  imless, 
indeed,  it  happened  that  both  the  gentlemen  occupied  themselves  in  the 
same  amusement.  The  question  is  certainly  one  of  no  great  moment, 
but  as  the  merit  of  these  sketches  (and,  as  we  have  elsewhere  said,  they 
possessed  considerable  merit)  has  been  publicly  attributed  to  a  party 
whose  clairii  to  it,  to  say  the  least,  appears  to  be  very  questionable,  our 
readers  will  pardon  us,  we  trust,  for  thus  relating  what  has  subsequently 
come  to  our  knowledqe. 


25 


DEATH  S    SERMON* 


"  What  man  is  he  that  liveth,  and  shall  not  see  Death?" — Psalm 
Ixxxix,  V.  48. 

"  Be  thou  faithful  unto  Death,  and  I  will  give  thee  a  crown  of  Life." 
— Rev.  ii.  V.  10. 

"  And  I  looked,  and  behold  a  pale  horse :  and  the  name  that  sat  on 

him  was  Death." "  And  the  kings  of  the  earth,  and  the  great  men, 

and  the  rich  men,  and  the  chief  captains,  and  the  mighty  men,  and 
every  bondman,  and  every  freeman,  hid  themselves  in  the  dens  and 
in  the  rocks  of  the  mountains." — Rev.  vi.  v.  8  &  15. 


What  wild  creation  of  a  fev'rish  brain 
Is  this,  which  mocks  my  sight  with  ghastly  forms 
Of  skeletons — grotesque  yet  terrible? 
Is't  an  illusive  vision,  conjured  up 
To  cheat  the  eye  and  scare  the  tim'rous  soul  ? — 
Ha! — no — 'tis  real !   see — one  moves !  he  speaks  ! 
And  in  the  attitude  of  preaching  stands — 
His  book  before  him,  resting  on  a  desk 
Made  up  of  human  bones ! — Ah  !  now  I  see 
'Tis  DEATH!  gaunt  Preacher!  whose  rude  pul- 
pit 's  placed 

*  Vide  Frontispiece. 


26 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


Within  the  precincts  of  the  charnel-house ; 
Where  bones  on  bones,  in  heaps  unnumber'd,  lie. 
And  fetid  exhalations  taint  the  air  ! 
There,  on  the  mould'ring  relics  of  mankind. 
The  all-subduing  Monarch  of  the  Tomb 
His  station  takes — as  if  to  make  frail  man 
With  man's  inevitable  fate  familiar. — 
Mark  ye  his  outstretch'd  arm  and  withering  look ! 
While  tones  sepulchral  from  his  lipless  jaws 
Resound,  like  thunder  in  a  troubled  sky 
When  Nature  is  convuls'd,  and  man  and  beast 
Quail  at  the  crash,  and  dread  the  fiery  bolt ! 
And  see — the  hollow  sockets  of  the  eyes 
Gleam  with  a  lurid  light,  which  fearless  none 

Can  view !    O  how  terrific  is  the  scene  ! 

Now  all  is  hush'd  ;  for  e'en  the  last  faint  sound 

Of  murm'ring  echo  dies  away.     The  pause 

How  drear  ! — Now,  now  again,  his  deep-toned  voice 

Is  heard,  in  accents  superhuman,  loud. 

And  awfully  sublime ! 


"  Though  truth  may  sound 
Ungracious  to  the  ear,  where  flattery  pours 
Its  honied  poison — still  the  truth  I'll  speak ; 
And  though  my  form  appalling  to  the  sight 


death's  sermon.  27 

Be  deem'd— still  shall  that  form  be  view'd. 
Mercy  and  Might  with  Death  go  hand  in  hand  ! 
And  Mercy  bids  rae  throw  aside  the  veil 
That  screens  mortality  from  outward  ken. 
And  keeps  mankind  in  ignorance  of  self! 

*'  The  great  Deliverer  of  Man  am  I, 
Although  of  mortal  Life  the  Conqueror : 
For  though  at  human  pride  my  shafts  I  hurl. 
And  into  atoms  crush  the  vaunting  fools 
Who,  with  prosperity  intoxicate,  affect 
To  heed  me  not — yet  from  the  direst  woes 
I  rescue  the  oppress'd,  and  with  a  wreath 
Of  never-fading  glory  bind  their  brows. 
And  shall  my  wondrous  attributes  remain 
Unnotic'd  or  contemn'd — my  pow'r  forgot. 
Which  earth,  and  air,  and  sea  encompasseth  ? 
Shall  I  not  use  that  glorious  privilege, 
Which  both  to  mercy  and  to  might  belong — 
Now  striking  terror  in  obdurate  hearts. 
And  punishing  men's  crimes — now  turning  from 
The  error  of  their  ways  the  penitent. 
And  leading  them  in  paths  of  righteousness  7 — 

"  When  hydra-headed  Vice  o'er  all  the  earth 
Triumphant  stalks— and  man  is  sunk  in  crime  ; 


28  death's  doings. 

When  mad  Ambition,  Av'rice,  lust  of  Power, 
Hate,  Rapine,  Envy,  and  fierce  Discord  reign ; 
And  when  the  child  of  Merit  droops  his  head, 
And  pines  in  want,  while  bloated  Ignorance 
Luxurious  revels  in  his  splendid  halls ; 
In  vain  shall  Man  exhort  his  fellow  man  : 
A  worm,  alas,  remonstrates  with  a  worm  ! 
In  vain  shall  Preachers,  whatsoe'er  their  creed. 
Anathemas  denounce,  or  woo  their  flocks 
With  promises  of  pardon  and  of  peace : 
Though  gifted  with  persuasive  eloquence. 
Though  every  precept  spoke  a  truth  divine, 
Without  MY  aid  would  Preachers  preach  in  vain,— 
Their  words — as  evanescent  as  the  wind 
That  whispers  in  the  grove  at  eventide, 
And  then  is  heard  no  more. 

"But/  am  fear' d! 
For  my  dominion  over  all  extends. 
And  naught  can  circumscribe  my  sov'reign  will. 
To  ME,  though  not  in  homage,  all  men  bow  ! 
Yea,  e'en  the  mighty  puppets  of  the  earth. 
Surrounded  by  the  minions  of  their  will. 
And  deck'd  in  all  the  mockery  of  state. 
Crouch,  like  the  veriest  slaves,  at  my  approach. 
And  try,  by  pray'rs,  and  vows,  and  floods  of  tears. 


death's  sermon.  29 

To  crastinate  their  sure  impending  doom. 
Yet  such  is  oft  their  arrogance  and  pride. 
And  such  the  madness  of  the  vassal  crew. 
Who  blindly  follow  in  the  vain  pursuit 
Of  glittering  glory  and  of  noisy  fame; 
That  were  not  /  to  check  their  vile  career. 
Ills,  far  more  grievous  than  Egyptian  plagues. 
The  world  would  so  infest,  that  Honour,  Truth, 
Love,  Friendship,  Hope,  and  heav'n-born  Charity, 
To  other  spheres  would  flee,  and  leave  this  orb 
To  man's  unbridled  violence  a  prey. 

"  Yet,  though  none  dare  dispute  my  boundless  sway. 

My  actions  none  will  bear  in  memory. — 

When  foam-crown'd  billows  sweep  across  the  deck. 

The  awe-struck  seaman,  clinging  to  the  mast. 

Sees  me  with  terrors  arm'd,  and  dreads  the  surge 

That  soon  may  overwhelm  him  in  the  deep : 

But  when  the  storm  subsides,  forgotten  quite 

The  waves  which,  tempest-toss'd,  dash'd  o'er  his  head. 

And  but  an  hour  before  had  fill'd  his  mind 

With  all  the  horrors  of  a  wat'ry  grave ! 

'Tis  thus  with  all  mankind.     When  near  I'm  view'd, 
Appall'd  by  guilty  fears,  they  dread  my  dart; — 
But  seen  afar,  or  veil'd  in  some  disguise. 
They  act  as  though  my  power  they  despised. 


30  death's  doings. 

Or  treat  me  as  a  bugbear,  fit  for  naught 
But  keeping  fools  and  children  in  subjection. 

*'  'Tis  strange — 'tis  wonderful — that  Man,  endow'd 

With  reasoning  pow'rs — with  faculty  of  speech — 

With  clear  perceptions,  knowing  right  from  wrong ; — 

That  Man,  who  bears  the  impress  of  his  God  ; — 

That  Man,  to  whom  the  sacred  truth's  reveal'd 

That  mortal  life  is  but  probationary; 

And  that  his  essence,  purged  from  fleshly  sin. 

Shall  at  the  last  great  day  e'en  Death  and  Time 

O'ercome,  and  take  its  flight  to  realms  of  bliss. 

Surrounded  by  the  spirits  of  the  Just, 

And  angels,  hymning  great  Jehovah's  praise; — 

'Tis  wonderful,  that  Man,  of  this  assur'd. 

And  the  dread  certainty  before  his  eyes 

That  everlasting  woe  the  wretch  awaits 

Who  scorns  high  heaven's  reward — should  plunge  in 

crime. 
And  rush,  regardless,  tow'rds  a  precipice. 
Beneath  whose  frightful  brink  perdition  yawns! 

"  What!  will  ye  risk  your  soul's  eternal  peace. 
To  gain  some  perishable  gewgaw  here  ? 
Or,  what  more  likely  is,— to  lose  the  substance 
And  the  shadow  too,— to  earn  men's  curses  first. 


death's  sermon.  31 

Then  die  the  martyr  of  some  guilty  wish. 
Some  meditated,  unrepented  crime? 
A.las  !  ye  will.     Then  am  I  man's  bes't  friend, 
And  most  his  friend,  when  speedy  aid  I  give. 
To  save  him  from  himself— his  direst  foe  ! 

"  Dark  is  the  picture,  but  the  tints  are  true; — 
For  though  the  gloss  of  flattery  I  despise. 
No  shades  unreal,  for  efiect,  I  use  ; 
'Tis  colour'd  from  the  life — the  life  of  man ! 

And  what  is  Life? — at  best,  a  dream  of  Hope, 

Where  fairy  visions  of  delight  appear 

To  dance  before  the  eye ;  but  vanish  quite. 

And  leave  a  dreary  blank  behind,  when  those 

Who  trust  in  their  reality,  awake  ! 

O  'tis  a  pageant — unsubstantial,  vain. 

And  falsely  gay ! And  what  are  all  its  joys  ? 

Mere  childish  baubles — playthings  of  an  hour — 
Call'd  pleasure,  wealth,  or  fame ;  which  if  possess'd. 
Bring  with  them  anxious  cares  and  countless  toils. 
In  lieu  of  earth's  best  treasure,  sweet  Content  ! 

"  From  infancy  to  age,  the  scenes  of  Life, 
Hovve'er  the  colours  vary,  all  abound 
With  sombre  shadows  of  mortality. — 


32  death's  doings. 

The  laughing  eye  and  dimpled  cheek  of  Youth, 

Though  bright  and  blushing  as  the  rosy  morn. 

At  unrequited  love  or  blighted  hope 

Change  fearfully. — In  all  the  pride  of  strength 

Manhood  may  walk  erect;  but  soon  the  brow 

With  care's  deep  furrows  is  engrav'd — the  eyes 

With  tedious  vigils  red — the  firm,  bold  step. 

Cautious  and  timid  grows — while  anxious  fears 

Are  painted  on  the  sallow  cheek,  where  health 

Once  bloom'd,  and  manly  beauty  shone. — Then  Age 

(If  Life's  contracted  span  to  Age  extend) 

Comes  tott'ring  on,  in  sad  decrepitude. 

Bending  beneath  a  load  of  pain  ;  while  scanty 

Locks  of  silvery  hair,  and  eyes  grown  dim. 

And  ears  which  sluggishly  their  task  perform. 

Are  Nature's  never-failing  messengers. 

Old  Age  to  warn,  that  Death  in  mercy  comes 

To  close  the  scene,  and  from  its  bondage  free 

Th'  imprison'd  soul,  which  pants  for  liberty ! 

"  Thus  having  Life's  brief  hist'ry  fairly  sketch'd. 
Now  let  me  turn  to  what  Life  leaves  behind. — 
Look  here !  around  me  lie  the  frail  remains 
Of  rich  and  poor,  of  weak  and  strong,  of  sage 
And  fool,  of  culprit  and  of  judge.     This  skull. 
Now  crumbling  into  dust,  was  once  th'  abode 


death's  sermon.  33 

Of  brains  which  teem'd  with  scientific  lore ; 
And  when  its  owner  dropt  into  the  grave, 
(But  not  till  then)  the  giddy  multitude 
Enamour'd  grew  of  that  which  erst  they  scorn'd, 
And  treated  as  a  maniac's  rhapsodies. 
The  reason's  plain.     Int'rest  his  soul  ne'er  sway'd  ; 
He  neither  truckled  to  the  great,  nor  bent  the  knee 
At  Mammon's  shrine  ;  gold  he  accounted  dross ; 
And  spurn'd  all  laws  save  those  by  Virtue  made. 
He  heeded  not  the  scoffs  and  sneers  of  men  : 
Science  his  mind  illum'd  ;  Hope  cheer'd  his  path  ; 
And  when  I  call'd  him  hence,  his  placid  eye 
"Was  lighted  up  by  an  approving  conscience, 
That  gave  assurance  of  eternal  bliss. 
That  was  the  cranium  of  a  senseless  dolt — 
One  of  those  barren  spots  on  Nature's  map, 
Where  mental  tillage  is  a  hopeless  toil : 
Yet  while  he  liv'd,  although  his  ev'ry  act 
Was  folly,  and  stultiloquence  his  speech. 
The  world  applauded  him, — and  flatt'rers  round 
His  table  throng'd,  like  drones  about  a  hive : 
And  why?    The  dunce  was  rich,  and  lavish'd  all 
His  wealth  upon  the  fawning  knaves  who  bow'd 
Before  this  '  god  of  their  idolatry.' 

"  See  what  a  motley  and  incongruous  heap. 
In  undistinguish'd  fellowship,  are  here ! 


34  death's  doings. 

The  head  which  once  a  proud  tiara  wore. 

Unconscious,  rests  upon  a  ploughman's  cheek ; 

And  that  which,  animate,  promulged  the  law, 

Serves  as  a  pillow  for  a  felon's  skull. 

Huge  legs,  that  once  with  sinews  strong  were  brac'd. 

And  arms  gigantic,  that,  encas'd  in  steel. 

Wielded  the  sword,  or  rais'd  the  massive  shield, 

Now  rest  in  quiet  with  the  stripling's  limbs. 

Or  relics  sad  of  beauty's  fragile  form. 

And  Where's  the  diff'rence  now  ? — What  boots  it,  then. 

To  know  the  deeds  or  qualities  of  either? 

Rank,  honours,  fortune,  strength  Herculean, 

Fame,  birthright,  beauty,  valour,  or  renown. 

What  trace  is  left  of  ye?    What  now  denotes 

Th'  imperial  ruler  from  the  meanest  boor — 

The  recreant  coward  from  the  hero  brave? — 

Here  all  contentions  cease.     The  direst  foes 

Together  meet — their  feuds  for  ever  past ; 

No  burnings  of  the  heart,  no  envious  sneers, 

No  covert  malice  here,  or  open  brawls 

Annoy.     All  strife  is  o'er.     The  creditor 

His  debtor  no  more  sues ;  for  here  all  debts 

Are  paid, — save  that  great  debt  incurr'd  by  Sin, 

Which,  when  the  final  day  of  reck'ning  shall 

Arrive,  cancell'd  will  be,  or  paid  in  full ! 

Let,  then,  this  solemn  truth  your  minds  impress — 

In  your  hearts'  core  O  let  it  be  engraved— 


death's  sermon.  35 

That,  though  the  body  in  the  silent  tomb 

Be  laid— though  greedy  worms  the  flesh  destroy, 

And  *  dust  to  dust  return' — the  soul  shall  live 

Eternal  in  the  heav'ns,  or  dwell  in  realms 

Where  fell  Despair  and  endless  Terror  reign. 

Then — if  the  dazzling  lustre  of  high  birth 

Shall  fail  to  shield  you  from  the  woes  of  life  ; 

If  grandeur  be  accompanied  by  care  ; 

If  under  glory's  mask,  or  fame's  disguise^ 

There  lurk  the  latent  seeds  of  deadly  strife  ; 

If  ills  prolific  fill  the  breast  of  pride. 

And  pomp  external  hide  deep  inward  griefs ; 

If  jealousy  on  beauty's  vitals  prey, 

Or  envy  give  a  jaundiced  hue  to  eyes 

Which  else  with  genius'  brightest  rays  would  shine ; 

In  fine — if  perfect  happiness  on  earth 

Exist  but  in  the  visionary's  dream  ; — 

The  first  great  object  of  your  soul's  concern. 

Is — how  t'  obtain  th'  invaluable  key 

By  which  the  gate  of  mercy  is  unlock'd, 

And  life  and  happiness  eternal  gain'd  ? 

"  What !  do  I  read  in  your  inquiring  looks 
That  you  would  fain  this  sacred  treasure  find? 
Go,  then,  and  Virtue  ask  ; — she'll  loud  proclaim, 
*  The  key  to  heaven  is  a  conscience  clear.' 
Conscience!  thou  never-erring  monitor; 

D  2 


36 


DEATH  S    DOINGS. 


Throughout  life's  pilgrimage  the  faithful  guide ; 

Conscience  !  by  whom  the  soul  of  man  is  warn'd 

To  shun  the  quicksands  of  a  treach'rous  world  ; 

How  little  art  thou  heeded ! — Yet  Life's  bark. 

Though  toss'd  by  storms  of  trouble  and  despair 

Upon  the  billows  of  uncertainty, 

Guided  by  Conscience,  safely  shall  arrive 

At  that  bless'd  port  of  everlasting  rest. 

That  haven  of  perpetual  delight. 

Whose  waves  pellucid  lave  Jehovah's  throne." 


Ha ! — see,  the  awful  Preacher  disappears ! 
His  desk  and  book  are  gone— and  once  more  all 
Is  still ! — Yet,  there's  the  charnel-house ;  and  there 
The  auditors  in  wild  amazement  stand ! — 
O  let  me  homeward  turn,  and  meditate 
Upon  the  solemn  scene. 

S.  M. 


^m 


37 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  GRACES.* 


{By  the  Author  of  "  The  Arabs.") 


Let  the  chill  Stoic  look  upon  thy  reign, 

0  Beauty  !  as  a  pageant,  fleet  and  vain, — 
Whate'er,  through  life,  his  varied  course  may  be, 
Man's  pilgrim  heart  shall  turn,  sweet  shrine,  to  thee. 
Not  thine  the  fault,  if  false  allurements  claim 

The  fool's  blind  homage  in  thy  sacred  name : 

They  are  not  fair  who  boast  but  outward  grace — 

The  naught  but  beautiful  of  form  or  face  ; 

They  are  the  lovely — they  in  whom  unite 

Earth's  fleeting  charms  with  Virtue's  heavenly  light; 

Who,  though  they  wither,  yet,  with  faded  bloom. 

Bear  not  their  all  of  sweetness  to  the  tomb. 

1  had  a  dream,  which,  in  my  waking  hour, 
Seemed  less  the  work  of  Fancy's  airy  power 
Than  Reason's  deep  creation  ;  for  the  hue 
Of  life  was  o'er  it : — life  approves  it  true. 

*  Written  as  an  Illustration  of  the  Skeleton  Trio  in  the  Vignette 
Title-page. 


38  death's  doings. 

Methought  that  I  was  wandering  in  a  room. 
Whose  air  was  naught  but  music  and  perfume  ; 
A  thousand  lights  were  flaming  o'er  my  head  ; 
And  all  around  me  flitted  feet,  whose  tread 
Roused  not  the  listening  echoes,  for  each  bound 
Was  but  the  mute  response  to  softest  sound. 
Sweet  eyes,  whose  looks  were  language,  and  bland 

tongues, 
Whose  accents  died  into  ^olian  songs. 
Were  there  the  things  of  worship ;  and  man's  sigh 
The  incense  of  his  heart's  idolatry. 
High  swelled  each  breast  within  that  proud  saloon  ; 
For  midnight  there  was  Fashion's  sparkling  noon  : 
The  vain  beheld  a  sun  in  every  gem  ; — 
That  room  was  all  the  universe  to  them. 
But  they  were  not  the  happy : — who  can  hide 
Th'  intranquil  heart? — their  looks  their  lips  belied. 
Stiff"  in  the  gorgeous  masquerade  of  state, 
The  miserably  rich,  the  joyless  great, 
The  beautiful,  whose  beauty  was  a  care 
More  deep  than  wrinkles,  sighed,  yet  would  not  share 
E'en  the  dull  calm  which  mere  exhaustion  throws 
O'er  silken  couches — soft  without  repose. 
Foremost,  and  most  conspicuous  of  the  dance, 
I  now  beheld  three  glowing  forms  advance. 
Who  seemed  the  envy  or  the  boast  of  all : — 
For  they  were  deemed  the  Graces  of  the  ball. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  GRACES.  ,  89 

The  first, — in  spangled  vesture — as  she  came, 
Shot  from  her  eye  keen  Wit's  electric  flame. 
Whose  sparks,  tho*  playful,  like  the  lightning's  dart, 
Fall  on  the  cold,  alike,  and  feeling  heart. 
The  next  had  veiled  beneath  a  dazzling  dress 
Of  vain  adornments  her  own  loveliness. 
Resembling  but  that  elegant  deceit. 
The  rose  of  Art — superb,  without  a  sweet. 
The  last  was  gentlest ;  but  her  soul — all  love. 
Unveiled  as  Venus  in  her  Paphian  grove — 
Burned  on  her  lips  and  quickly-heaving  breast, 
As  they  were  things  but  purposed  to  be  press'd. 
With  arms  entwined,  these  Graces  of  a  night, — 
Wild  Wit,  False  Taste,  and  Amorous  Dkligh t. 
Praised  by  the  many,  by  the  few  admired. 
Performed  their  part,  then  suddenly  retired  : — 
The  dance  stood  still — men  watched  the  closing  door ! 
Sighed — turned — and  all  went  gaily  as  before. 

Contemplating  the  scene,  my  sight  grew  dim  ; — 
The  ceaseless  whirling  made  my  senses  swim  : 
Quick  o'er  my  frame  there  came  a  torpid  chill ; 
The  tapers  died  ;  and  all  was  dark  and  still ; 
All,  save  the  glimmerings  of  a  sullen  lamp. 
And  the  cold  droppings  of  sepulchral  damp. 
Which,  falling  round  me,  through  the  lurid  gloom. 
Told  that  I  trod  the  charnel  of  the  tomb. 


40  death's  doings. 

It  was  a  mausoleum,  vast  and  high. 
Whose  soil  was  reeking  with  mortality  : 
There,  in  the  midst,  O  sight  of  horror  !  stood 
Three  forms  whose  aspect  chilled  my  vital  blood : 
Grouped    on  a  grave's   cold   slab,    like  things   that 

breathed, 
Three  skeletons  their  fleshless  arais  enwreathed ; 
But  moveless — silent  as  the  ponderous  stone 
Whereon  they  stood  : — and  I  was  all  alone  ! 
**  O  for  the  Ethiop's  sable  charms  to  hide 
Those  hideous  vestiges  of  Beauty's  pride  !" 
To  this  I  heard  a  hollow  voice  reply, 
**  Behold  the  Graces  ! — mortal,  feast  thine  eye !" 
But  I  did  turn  me,  sickening  with  disgust ; 
For  I  beheld  them  mouldering  into  dust. 

"  And  is  this  all,  O  Beauty ! — this  the  close 

Of  thy  brief  transit? — this  thy  last  repose?" 

As  thus  I  spake,  a  slow  expanding  ray 

Broke  through  the  gloomy  mist,  like  opening  day ; 

Unfolding  to  my  gaze  a  spacious  scene 

Of  hill  and  valley,  clothed  in  fadeless  green. 

On  every  side,  a  thousand  varied  flowers 

Seemed  dropping  from  the  sun,  in  odorous  showers  : 

And  there  were  groves  and  avenues,  all  graced 

With  Temples  and  with  monuments  of  Taste  ; 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  GRACES.  41 

Where  Sculpture,  Painting — all  that  polished  Art, 
Combined  with  useful  Science,  could  impart, 
Blended  harmonious  ;  whilst  th'  ethereal  soul 
Of  Music  poured  its  sweetness  o'er  the  whole. 
I  looked  around  ;  and,  in  the  east  there  shone 
Three  stars  of  beauty,  burning  'neath  the  sun. 
E'en  with  increase  of  splendour  ;  for  their  rays 
Were  such  as  wooed  the  brightness  of  his  blaze. 
But  tho'  they  seemed  like  spheres  of  heavenly  birth. 
Their  path  was  not  in  heaven,  but  o'er  the  Earth ; 
And  they  advanced  towards  me  : — as  they  came. 
Their  orbs  dilated  into  thinner  flame  ; 
And,  softly  from  the  circumambient  light. 
Three  Angel  forms  emerged  upon  my  sight. 
The  first — if  either  first  engaged  mine  eye- 
Bore  in  her  own  the  tear  of  sympathy  : 
Ne'er  looked  the  sun  upon  a  fairer  cheek ; 
Ne'er  met  his  glance  a  glance  more  mild  and  meek. 
The  next  had,  in  her  delicate  caress, 
Far  more  of  majesty  than  playfulness  : 
And  tho'  her  eye  was  kind — 'twas  chastely  clear 
As  fountain-drops,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  sphere. 
The  last— possessed  of  woman's  sprightlier  charm — 
Bloomed  like  the  blush-rose,  pure,  yet  inly  warm  : 
Pure  as  its  leaves  the  thought  her  bosom  bore — 
Her  generous  heart  as  glowing  as  its  core. 


42  death's  doings. 

Linked  hand  in  hand,  I  saw  them  onward  move, 
Until  they  faced  the  rosy  bower  of  Love  ;— 
When,  mingled  with  the  music,  breathing  near. 
These  gladsome  accents  fell  upon  mine  ear: 
"Hail,  Pity!  Chastity!  Benevolence! 
Sweet  is  the  calm  your  gentle  smiles  dispense  ! 
Hail,  Sister  Graces,  who  adorn  the  Fair  ! 
Fresh  be  your  garlands — happy  they  who  wear!" 
And,  thus  proceeding,  all  on  which  they  cast 
Their  radiant  glances,  brightened  as  they  pass'd  : 
And  I  did  follow  them  with  eye  and  heart. 
Until  I  saw  their  fading  forms  depart : 
Again  they  slowly  melted  into  light ; 
Again  like  stars  became  distinctly  bright ; 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dimmed  horizon,  shed 
Soft  rays  like  those  which  linger  o'er  the  dead — 
Those  lovely  halos  which  dispel  the  gloom 
When  Memory  hangs  o'er  Virtue's  early  tomb. 
Thus  did  I  gaze  until  some  flickering  beam 
Of  fancy  passed,  and  broke  my  fitful  Dream. 

H.  A.  D. 


THE    FOET. 


43 


THE    POET. 


Thou  art  vanish'd  !     Like  the  blast 
Bursting  from  the  midnight  cloud  ; 

Like  the  lightning  thou  art  past, — 
Earth  has  seen  no  nobler  shroud ! 

Now  is  quencb'd  the  flashing  eye, 
Now  is  chiird  the  burning  brow. 

All  the  poet  that  can  die ; 
Homer's  self  is  but  as  thou. 

Thou  hast  drunk  life's  richest  draught, 
Glory,  tempter  of  the  soul ! 

Wild  and  deep  thy  spirit  quaff'd. 
There  was  poison  in  the  bowl. 

Then  the  haunting  visions  rose. 
Spectres  round  thy  bosom's  throne. 

Poet !  what  shall  paint  thy  woes, 
But  a  pencil  like  thine  own  ? 


4G  death's  doings. 

But  hail  thee,  Death  !  thy  bitterness 

And  fearful  sting  are  past — 
I  feel  but  now  the  weariness 

Of  one  whose  lot  was  cast. 
With  curbless  heart  and  reckless  mind 

To  toil  for  what  he  scorns. 
Upon  a  land  where  few  e'en  find 

The  rose  amid  its  thorns. 

Yet  life  has  been  to  me  the  clue 

Of  an  enchanted  grove. 
Where  over  paths  of  varied  hue. 

We  track  the  bower  of  love. 
I've  seen  upon  this  troublous  earth 

At  times  a  heavenly  gleam, 
That  warn'd  the  spirit  of  its  birth, 

As  in  a  glorious  dream. 

I've  felt,  oh  yes  !  they  knew  not  how 

Who  trod  this  earth  with  me— 
How  deep  hath  been  the  kindling  glow. 

The  bosom's  inward  glee. 
When  thought  hath  borne  itself  along, 

A  pilgrim  of  delight. 
And  found,  like  its  own  realm  of  song, 

A  realm  for  ever  bright. 


DEATH  AND  THE  POET.  47 

My  lot  hath  been  a  lonely  one — 

The  loneliness  of  mind. 
That  makes  us  while  the  heart  is  young 

Half  scorners  of  our  kind  ; 
The  panting  of  the  soul  that  yearns 

For  love  it  hath  not  known. 
The  stoic  pride  of  soul  that  spurns 

At  love  not  like  its  own ; 

These  have,  at  times,  it  may  be,  shed 

A  gloom  upon  my  path, 
Hope — baffled  hope — and  passion  fed. 

The  spirit — and  its  wrath — 
But  what  my  earlier  wrongs  have  been, 

It  boots  not  now  to  think. 
There  was  too  clear  a  light  within. 

For  holier  hope  to  sink. 

'Twas  well — I  have  not  felt  in  vain — 

Life's  weariness  and  woe. 
The  thoughts  that  wring  the  heart  with  pain. 

None  but  itself  can  know. 
Have  better  taught  my  soul  to  dare. 

Its  own  high  path  of  bliss, 
Unmov'd — unbow'd — unchang'd — to  bear. 

Far  darker  pangs  than  this. 


48  death's  doings. 

Oh  Death  !  thou  com'st  to  me  as  when 

Thy  step  was  o'er  the  tide. 
And  thou  unveild'st  thy  form  to  men. 

Where  He,  th'  Athenian,  died  ; 
Or,  gentler,  when  with  vigils  sweet. 

Upon  the  midnight  air. 
Thou  com'st  where  chasten'd  souls  repeat 

Their  last  and  cheeriest  prayer. 

I  see  the  land  where  Hope  hath  made 

Her  everlasting  rest. 
And  peace,  that  was  long  wont  to  fade. 

Leaves  not  my  soothed  breast ; 
The  strains  that  o'er  my  slumbers  hung, 

The  forms  my  pathway  crost. 
The  lov'd  in  thought — each  perish'd  one. 

The  sear'd  heart  loved,  and  lost — 

They  are  around  me,  bright'ning  still. 

From  their  ethereal  clime. 
Not  clouded,  as  before,  with  ill. 

With  mortal  woe  or  crime — 
And  far  away  with  them  I  track. 

Thy  deep,  unfathom'd  sea — 
Hail  to  the  hour  that  calls  us  back  ! 

Pale  Vision,  hail  to  thee  ! 

H.  S. 


TJIE    PILGISIM. 


4J) 


THE    PILGRIM. 


And  Palmer,  grey  Palmer,  by  Galilee's  wave. 
Oh !  saw  you  Count  Albert,  the  gentle  and  brave. 
When  the  crescent  waxed  faint,  and  the  red  cross 

rushed  on, 
Oh  !  saw  you  him  foremost  on  Mount  Lebanon. 


The  ladye  sat  in  her  lonely  tower, — 
She  woke  not  her  lute,  she  touched  not  a  flower ; 
Though  the  lute  wooed  her  hand  with  its  silver  string. 
And  the  roses  were  rich  with  the  wealth  of  spring : 
But  she  thought  not  of  them,  for  her  heart  was  afar. 
It  was  with  her  knight  in  the  Holy  war. 

She  lookM  in  the  west ; — it  was  not  to  see 
The  crimson  and  gold  of  the  sky  and  sea. 
Lighted  alike  by  the  setting  sun. 
As  rather  that  day  than  night  were  begun  ; 

E 


50  death's  doings. 

But  it  was  that  a  star  was  rising  there. 
Like  a  diamond  set  in  the  purple  air. 
The  natal  star  of  her  own  true  knight — 
No  marvel  the  maiden  watched  its  light : 
At  their  parting  hour  they  bade  it  be 
Their  watch  and  sign  of  fidelity. 

Amid  the  rich  and  purple  crowd 

That  throng  the  west,  is  a  single  cloud, 

Difiering  from  all  around,  it  sails. 

The  cradle  of  far  other  gales 

Than  the  soft  and  southern  airs,  which  bring 

But  the  dew  and  the  flower-sigh  on  their  wing ; 

Like  some  dark  spirit's  shadowy  car. 

It  floats  on  and  hides  that  lovely  star, 

While  the  rest  of  the  sky  is  bright  and  clear, 

The  sole  dark  thing  in  the  hemisphere. 

But  the  maiden  had  turned  from  sea  and  sky. 
To  gaze  on  the  winding  path,  where  her  eye 
A  pilgrim's  distant  form  had  scann'd  : 
He  is  surely  one  of  the  sacred  band 
Who  seek  their  heavenly  heritage 
By  prayer  and  toil  and  pilgrimage  ! 
She  staid  not  to  braid  her  raven  hair, — 
Loose  it  flow'd  on  the  summer  air  ; 


THE    §CROLL» 


THE  SCROLL.  61 

She  took  no  heed  of  her  silvery  veil, — 
Her  cheek  might  be  kiss'd  by  the  sun  or  the  gale  : 
She  saw  but  the  scroll  in  the  pilgrim's  hand. 
And  the  palm-branch  that  told  of  the  Holy  Land. 

L.  E.  L. 


THE    SCROLL." 


The  maiden's  cheek  blush'd  ruby  bright. 
And  her  heart  beat  quick  with  its  own  delight ; 
Again  she  should  dwell  on  those  vows  so  dear. 
Almost  as  if  her  lover  were  near. 
Little  deemed  she  that  letter  would  tell 
How  that  true  lover  fought  and  fell. 
The  maiden  read  till  her  cheek  grew  pale — 
Yon  drooping  eye  tells  all  the  tale  : 
She  sees  her  own  knight's  last  fond  prayer. 
And  she  reads  in  that  scroll  her  heart's  despair. 
Oh  !  grave,  how  terrible  art  thou 
To  young  hearts  bound  in  one  fond  vow. 
Oh !  human  love,  how  vain  is  thy  trust ; 
Hope !  how  soon  art  thou  laid  in  dust. 

b2 


52 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


Thou  fatal  pilgrim,  who  art  thon. 

As  thou  fling'st  the  black  veil  from  thy  shadowy  brow? 

I  know  thee  now,  dark  lord  of  the  tomb. 

By  the  pale  maiden's  withering  bloom  : 

The  light  is  gone  from  her  glassy  eye. 

And  her  cheek  is  struck  by  mortality  ; 

From  her  parted  lip  there  comes  no  breath. 

For  that  scroll  was  fate — its  bearer — Death. 

L.  E.  L. 


THE   AlRTIST,, 


53 


THE  ARTIST. 


And  what  is  genius  ? — 'Tis  a  ray  of  Heaven, 

Illuming  dim  mortality  ;  a  gleam 

That  flashes  on  our  gloominess  by  fits. 

Like  summer  lightnings,  which,  in  radiant  lines, 

Inwreath  the  midnight  clouds  with  tints  divine  ; 

It  gilds  Imagination's  darkest  scenes 

With  splendid  glory,  like  those  meteor  gems 

That  spread  their  richness  o'er  the  polar  skies. 

O,  'tis  a  straggling  sunbeam,  through  the  storm. 

Flung  on  the  cluster'd  diamond,  which  reflects. 

In  burning  brilliancy,  the  borrow'd  blaze  ; 

It  is  the  morning  light,  outpouring  all 

Its  flood  of  splendour  on  the  bloomy  bovvers 

Of  God's  own  Paradise  ! 

Though  hapless  oft 
His  fate,  how  bless'd  the  Artist  who  beholds. 
With  mind  inspir'd  and  genius-brighten'd  eye. 
Those  beauties  which  eternally  shine  forth. 


54  death's  doings. 

Nature,  in  all  thy  works  !     To  him,  high  wrapp'd 

In  passion'd  fancies,  feelings  so  allied 

To  something  heavenly,  that  to  all  on  earth 

They  give  their  own  rich  tinting.     What  delight 

The  morning  landscape  yields  ;  when  the  young  sun 

Flings  o'er  the  mountain  his  first  bickering  ray. 

And  tips  with  wavering  gold  the  embattled  tower; 

When  the  first  rosy  gleam  the  waters  catch, 

Like  smiling  babe  just  waking  from  soft  sleep 

On  its  fond  mother's  bosom  ;  while  the  woods. 

That  ring  with  bird-notes  sweet,  are  dimly  wrapp'd 

In  mistiness  and  shade.     What  joy  is  his. 

Amid  the  forest  depths  to  wander  on. 

O'er  flower-empurpled  path,  and  list  the  tones 

Of  the  deep  waterfall,  at  silent  noon. 

Drowning  the  woodlark's  song;  and,  then,  to  view 

Its  angry  flood,  headlong  from  rock  to  rock. 

Leaping  in  thund'rous  rush,  with  silvery  arch, — 

Melodiously  sublime  !  while  o'er  its  mists. 

That  to  the  sun  a  mimic  rainbow  spread. 

The  guardian  oaks  bend  lovingly  their  arms. 

And  drink  the  pearly  moisture  :  in  their  shade 

The  lily  blossoms  on  its  mossy  bank, 

And    through    their   boughs    wildly    the    summer 

breeze. 
An  ever- wandering  harper,  sings  unheard. 


THE  ARTIST.  56 

And,  oh  !  how  sweet  to  him  the  sunset  hour. 

When,  high  amid  the  evening's  glowing  pomps 

That  light  the  west,  the  mountain  lifts  its  head,-^- 

A  rich  empurpled  pillow  for  the  God 

Of  Day  to  rest  on,  as  he,  like  a  king 

In  coronation  splendour,  gaily  bids 

His  worshippers  farewell,  ere  he  retires 

"With  Ocean's  potentates,  his  rosy  wine 

To  quaff  amid  their  gem-wrought  banquet  bowers  ; 

Then  on  the  painter's  ear  the  hymn  of  love 

Falls  in  full  harmony  ; — the  lake  outspreads. 

With  all  a  brother  artist's  beauteous  skill. 

Another  landscape  to  his  ravish'd  eye. 

Gorgeous  with  radiant  colouring ;  deep  the  groves 

Are  cast  into  the  shade,  where  flocks  and  herds 

Are  wandering  homeward  to  the  tinkling  sound 

Of  their  own  tuneful  bells,  and  pastoral  reed 

And  song  of  milkmaid  fill  up  every  pause 

In  Nature's  vesper  anthem,  while  the  spire 

And  sun-gilt  tower  glow  with  the  day's  last  beam. 

To  him  what  grand  sublimity  appears 

In  the  vast  ocean,  with  its  cloud-wreathed  cliffs. 

Rocks,  shores,  and  isles,  and  vessels  wind-caress'd. 

Sheeted  in  glittering  sunshine,  or  enwrapp'd 

In  all  the  tempest's  dark  magnificence ! 


56  death's  doings. 

And,  oh  !  to  him,  how  sweet,  when  copying  all 
The  coy  bewitching  charms  of  moonlight  eve  ! 
Then  the  rich  woods  voluptuously  their  gold 
Fling  loose  t'  th'  wanton  winds,  whose  amorous  song 
Is  heard  amid  their  inmost  bowers,  where  rests 
The  love-talking  nightingale,  discoursing  sweet 
To  her  patroness,  the  radiant  queen  of  Heaven. 
Then,  bathed  in  dew,  the  full-blown  roses  fling 
Their  odours  all  abroad,  and  jasmine  flowers 
And  rich  carnation  buds  their  honey-cups 
With  nectar  fill,  and  to  the  night-breeze  yield. 
Like  virgin  bride,  their  richest  treasur'd  sweets  ; 
While  flow  the  streams  in  silver,  and  the  towers 
Of  time-worn  castles,  and  dismantled  aisles 
Of  pillar'd  abbeys,  break  the  shadowy  mass, 
With  beamy  outline,  of  the  deep  obscure. 

'Tis  not  the  soft  and  beautiful  alone 
The  youthful  painter  loves  to  imitate  : 
The  strife  of  arms  is  his— the  battle-field. 
Where  rings  the  stormy  trumpet,  is  the  scene 
Where  oft  he  pants  to  win  immortal  fame  ; 
Great  as  the  hero  who,  with  spear-riven  arms. 
Mows  down  with  his  red  brand  whole  ranks  of  foes ; 
While  chariot-wheels  and  war-steed's  iron  hoof 
Trample  the  dead  and  dying  in  the  dust. 


THE  ARTIST.  57 

Deeds,  too,  of  holy  history  often  fill 

His  waking  dreams,  till  his  wide  canvass  glows 

With  characters  divine — with  wond'rous  acts. 

Miraculous,  of  Him  who  lived  and  died 

To  save  a  guilty  world. 

But,  oh  !  what  toils. 
What  studies,   night   and  day, — what   hopes,  what 

prayers. 
What  aspirations,  what  ecstatic  thoughts. 
And  wild  imaginings  of  fancy  bright. 
Are  his,  as  up  the  weary  steep  he  climbs 
To  win  renown, — to  win  that  glory  which 
Must  only  shine  upon  his  early  grave  ! 
Oh  !  he  had  hop'd  to  gain  renown  as  great 
As  that  which  to  Italia's  sons  belong  ; 
To  blend  his  name  with  RafFaele,  Angelo, 
Parmeggiano,  Titian,  and  Vandyke  ; 
Hop'd  that  the  radiant  tints  would  all  be  his 
Of  Rubens, — his  that  painter's  grand  effects, 
Combin'd  with  every  excellence  that  graced 
Albano's  sweetness  and  Correggio's  taste. 
Alas  !  ill-fated  artist,  thy  proud  hopes 
Were,  like  the  bard's,  to  disappointment  doomed ! 
Thy  expectations  all  cut  off — thyself 
Left  in  thy  prime  to  wither,  like  the  bud,— 


58  death's  doings. 

The  flower-bud  rich  of  promise,  by  the  frost 
Cut  oflf  untimely !     With  thy  beauteous  tints 
Thy  tears  were  mingled  oft ;  the  dart  of  Death 
At  length,  in  pity,  smote  thy  burden'd  heart. 
And  gave  thee  freedom :  dying,  thou  didst  think, — 
Painfully  think,  of  what  thou  mightst  have  been. 
Had  fortune  on  thy  opening  merit  smil'd, — 
Then  slept  to  wake  in  bliss  ! 

And  now  mankind. 
In  generous  mockery,  pay  that  tribute  due 
To  thy  transcendant  talents,  and  the  grave 
That  hides  thy  cold  remains  with  laurels  deck ! 

J.  F.  P. 


59 


DEATH  AND  THE  ARTIST. 


**  The  pale-faced  artist  plies  his  sickly  trade/' 
saith  the  poet.  And  what  then  ?  The  daring  ge- 
nius will  not  be  appalled  in  his  pursuit  of  glory ; 
the  enthusiastic  painter  would  yet  spread  the  pig- 
ments on  his  palette,  though  the  King  of  Terrors 
were  at  his  elbow,  playing  the  part  of  levigator.  A 
fig  for  life,  to  gain  a  deathless  fame  ! 

Death,  the  everlasting  bugbear  to  wights  of  com- 
mon mould,  hath  no  terror  to  the  philosopher,  whe- 
ther he  be  poet,  painter,  sculptor,  or  other,  bent  on 
those  scientific  pursuits  that  lefad  to  immortality. 
Let  sordid  souls  tremble  at  his  name — these  mental 
heroes  start  not  for  worthless  gold,  but  run  the  race 
for  glory. 

The  poet  takes  his  flight  above  the  region  of  ter- 
restrial things ;  and,  though  allied  to  earth,  before 
the  time  allotted  to  baser  souls,  ere  he  quits  his 


60  death's  doings. 

mortal  tenement,  he  leaves,  in  imagination,  earth  be- 
hind, and  revels  midst  a  world  of  spirits  ;  and,  but 
for  the  loud  rapping  of  the  dun,  would  not  awaken 
from  his  reverie,  till  Death,  reminding  him  of  life, 
translates  him  to  eternity. 

So  the  sculptor  chips  the  rude  block,  and  labours 
on,  inspired,  heedless  of  sublunary  things,  until  the 
cold  marble  breathes  beneath  his  animating  hand ; 
and  then  that  hand  which  gave  it  life  is  cold  itself 
as  marble.  Glorious  end !  for,  ere  the  enthusiast's 
tongue  is  mute,  or  eye  is  dim,  he  smiles  on  Death, 
and,  dying,  cries — Behold,  I  live  for  ever  in  that 
wondrous  statue  ! 

So  with  the  happy  hero  in  this  piece  :  wrapped  in 
his  art,  he  heeds  not  him  who  is  so  close  at  hand, 
regardless  of  that  hole  that  is  about  to  ope  beneath 
his  feet,  deep  as  eternity.  He  labours  on  serene, 
and,  having  given  the  last  finishing  to  Time,  yields 
to  him  who  is  Time's  vassal,  and  calmly  receives 
that  dart  which  finishes  himself.  Yet,  as  he  sinks 
beneath  the  blow,  he  points  him  at  his  handy-work 
in  exultation,  and,  with  his  last  breath,  taunts  the 
despot  on  his  impotency,  touching  that  living  fame 
which  never  dies  ! 


DEATH   AND  THE  ARTIST.  61 

He  is  most  wise  who  fears  the  despot  least ;  for, 
grim  sprite,  all  bones,  as  he  was  seen  when  Apelles 
hight  his  picture  drew,  or  as  this  hero  of  the  grave 
came  forth  of  Phidias'  chisel,  some  twenty  centuries 
ago,  or  as  we  see  the  said  dread  spectre.  Death, 
carved  to  the  life,  by  Roubilliac,  within  the  last 
hundred  years — Immortal  still — he  is  the  same — and 
come  he  will,  in  his  own  time,  when  least  expected  : 
and,  when  he  comes,  it  is  well  for  those  who  stare 
him  in  the  face,  if  face  he  has  that  flesh  hath  not, 
and  greet  him  as  your  men  of  science  have  been 
wont  to  do,  with — Well,  ho !  thou  art  come  at  last ; 
then  welcome,  king ! 

Death  ! — What  is  he  not  ?  Assuming  far  more 
shapes  than  ever  did  Italian  posture-master, — yea, 
more  forms  than  Proteus  himself ! — So  swift  of  foot, 
that  even  Mercury,  were  he  a  mortal,  for  all  his 
winged  feet,  could  not  outstrip  the  speed  of  this  pur- 
suer; so  sudden  in  his  movements,  too,  that  even 
Argus,  with  his  hundred  eyes,  might  yet  be  pounced 
upon,  with  all  his  vigilance ! 

The  wily  enemy  waylays  the  alderman  in  the  last 
spoonful  of  turtle  ;  he  makes  the  gamester  his  own 
in  a  losing  card;  seizes  the  agile  tumbler  in  the 
midst  of  his  somerset ;  grasps  the  hand  of  the  close- 


62  death's  doings. 

fisted  miser,  as  he  opens  the  iron  chest  to  add 
another  guinea  to  his  hoard  :  he  defrauds  the  gaoler 
of  his  fee,  by  arresting  the  midnight  burglar  at  the 
mouth  of  a  blunderbuss ;  lays  his  never-erring  hand 
alike  upon  the  careless  and  the  wary,  and  holds 
tight  in  his  grasp  the  strong  and  the  weak — the  evil 
and  the  good — the  wise  man  and  the  fool — the  poor 
and  the  rich.  Even  gold  cannot  swerve  this  agent 
of  the  grave  from  his  duty  ;  for,  though  the  chief  of 
universal  corruption,  he  is  impartial  in  his  office, 
and  himself  incorruptible. 

Vain,  indeed,  were  the  attempt  to  elude  this  mo- 
narch of  the  grave ;  for  who  shall  ken  his  hiding- 
place  ?  The  soldier  is  sent  to  seek  him  in  that  field 
where  murderous  bullets  fly  in  showers,  as  thick  as 
hail,  but  meets  him  not  in  war  :  yet,  when  least  ex- 
pected, finds  him  lurking  between  the  sheets,  in  a 
damp  bed,  beneath  the  roof  of  peace. 

The  sea-tossed  mariner,  with  glaring  eyes  and  hair 
erect, — with  mournful  oaths  in  lieu  of  prayers,  looks 
for  the  spectre  in  each  rolling  wave,  though  thence 
he  Cometh  not.  Now  safe  on  shore,  all  danger  past, 
as  it  should  seem,  he  tempts  him  with  the  cheerful 
bowl,  and  trips  him  up  as  he,  with  other  jovial 
wights,  is  reeling  home, — and  there's  an  end  of  him. 


DEATH  AND  THE  ARTIST.  63 

Hogarth,  who  drew  from  the  living  that  mortal 
drama  which  immortalized  his  genius  and  his  name, 
having  accomplished  his  great  and  multifarious 
works,  took  up  his  palette  and  his  other  painting- 
tools  to  make  that  last  study, — finis,  which,  with 
his  usual  fitness,  being  about  to  bid  adieu  to  Life, 
he  dedicates  to  Death.  Where  will  you  name  the 
hero  who  met  the  mortal  enemy  like  he  ? 

A  few  months  before  this  genius  was  seized  with 
the  malady  which  deprived  society  of  one  of  its 
greatest  ornaments,  he  proposed  to  his  matchless 
pencil  the  work  in  question ;  the  first  idea  of  which 
is  said  to  have  been  elicited  in  the  midst  of  his 
friends,  whilst  the  convivial  glass  was  circulating 
round  his  own  social  board.  "  My  next  subject," 
said  the  moral  painter,  "  shall  be  the  end  of  all 

THINGS." 

"  If  that  be  your  determination,"  said  one,  '*  your 
business  will  be  finished ;  for  then  will  be  the  end  of 
the  painter's  self." 

"  Even  so,"  returned  the  artist ;  "  therefore,  the 
sooner  my  work  is  done,  so  much  the  better."  Ac- 
cordingly, he  began  the  next  day,  continuing  his 
design  with  all  diligence,  seemingly  with  an  appre- 


64  death's  doings. 

hension  that  he  should  not  live  to  complete  the  com- 
position. This,  however,  he  did,  and  in  the  most 
ingenious  manner,  by  grouping  every  thing  which 
could  denote  the  end  of  all  things:  a  broken  bottle — 
an  old  broom  worn  to  the  stump— the  butt-end  of  an 
old  musket — a  cracked  bell — a  bow  unstrung — a 
crown  tumbled  in  pieces — towers  in  ruins — the  sign- 
post of  a  tavern,  called  The  World's  End,  tumbling — 
the  moon  in  her  wane — the  map  of  the  globe  burn-  • 
lug — a  gibbet  falling,  the  body  gone,  and  the  chain 
which  held  it  dropping  down — Phoebus  and  his 
horses  dead  in  the  clouds — a  vessel  wrecked — Time, 
with  his  hour-glass  and  scythe  broken,  a  tobacco- 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  the  last  whiff  of  smoke  going  out 
— a  play-book  opened,  with  exeunt  omnes  stamped 
in  the  corner — an  empty  purse — and  a  statute  of 
bankruptcy  taken  out  against  nature.  "  So  far,  so 
good,"  exclaimed  Hogarth ;  "  nothing  remains  but 
this," — taking  his  pencil  in  a  sort  of  prophetic  fury, 
and  dashing  off  the  similitude  of  a  painter's  palette 
broken, — "  Finis,"  exclaimed  the  painter  ;  *'  the 
deed  is  done — all  is  over."  It  is  remarkable,  that  he 
died  within  a  month  after  the  completion  of  this  tail- 
piece. It  is  also  well  known,  that  he  never  again 
took  the  pencil  in  hand. 

Ephraim  Hardcastle. 


G5 


THE  PURSUITS  OF  ART. 


The  pursuits  of  art,  like  tliose  of  literature,  have 
their  flowers,  their  fruits,  and,  it  may  be  added,  their 
thorns.  Like  the  spring',  they  are  full  of  hope  and 
blossom :  but,  like  the  spring,  they  are  subject  to 
blights  and  nipping  frosts ;  so  that  the  summer  fruits 
fall  short  of  the  fair  maturity  which  might  have  been 
expected  from  the  culture  and  toil  bestowed  upon 
the  plant  of  promise.  And  even  when  the  fruits  of 
art  are  cherished  and  ripened  by  the  sun  of  encou- 
ragement or  the  hotbeds  of  patronage,  there  is  a  bit- 
ter mixed  up  with  their  sweets,  or  a  thorn  springing 
up  with  their  growth. 

But,  to  wave  metaphor,  nothing  can  be  more  de- 
lightful than  the  pursuit  of  art ;  for  few  things  are 
more  productive  of  pleasure  and  advantage  than  the 
cultivation  of  that  knowledge  which  is  essential  to 
the  practice  of  it.  The  pleasure  and  advantage  are 
so  obvious,   that  to  point  them  out  (at  least  to  the 

F 


Gii  death's  doings. 

intelligent)  would  almost  be  an  insult  to  the  under- 
standing. 

But  there  is  a  reverse  to  this  picture. — The  de- 
voteduess  with  which  tlie  votaries  of  art  cling  to 
their  favourite  study  is  liable  to  so  many  rude 
shocks,  is  attended  with  so  many  privations,  often 
from  the  free  air  and  common  light  of  heaven,  but 
more  generally  from  neglect  and  the  various  contin- 
gencies attending  the  developement  of  talent, — that 
it  is  not  wonderful  the  frame  should  be  shaken,  and 
the  mind  at  length  alienated  or  rendered  incapable 
of  enjoying  pleasures  that  dawned  upon  the  first 
efforts  in  art.  Those  who  see  nothing  but  the  results 
of  the  painter's  skill,  who  hear  nothing  but  the 
praises  (often  exaggerated)  that  are  bestowed  upon 
his  works,  catch  only  at  the  information  given  by 
sight  or  hearsay,  and  imagine  the  path  to  be  that  of 
pleasure,  or,  at  least,  one  of  enviable  contentment. 
Neglect,  however,  is  sometimes  overcome  by  perse- 
verance, and  opposition  by  toil  and  industry;  but 
the  sorest  evils  of  all  are  the  remarks  of  the  ignorant 
and  the  sarcasms  of  the  critic : — 

Whate'er  may  be  the  painter's  merit, — 
Though  Raphael's  genius  he  inherit. 
Though  all  the  skill  of  all  the  tribe 
To  aid  his  pencil  should  subscribe, 


THE  PURSUITS  OF  ART.  67 

He  will  not,  in  the  critic's  view. 
Be  any  thing  while  he  is  new. 
Alive !  his  works  are  all  a  blunder  ; 
But  dead — all  join  in  praise  and  wonder: 
His  forms  are  melted  into  grace. 
And  none  a  blemish  now  can  trace  -, 
His  colours,  though  with  time  they're  fled. 
Leave  fancied  beauties  in  their  stead  ; 
Death  gives  a  sanction  to  his  name, 
And  hands  him  o'er  to  future  fame  f 


Imagination,  too,  can  preach 
Of  something  even  out  of  reach, — 
Can  prate  of  miracles  in  art 
That  only  in  the  fancy  start. 


The  painter  still  must  bear  the  lash, 

E'en  though  the  terms  be  "  vile!"  or  "  trash!" 

And  this,  too,  blurted  in  his  face 

By  some  pretender  of  the  race 

Of  connoisseurs,  who  having  found 

Through  fortune  some  advantage-gi-ound. 

Some  smattering  of  virtu  or  taste. 

And,  fearing  it  should  run  to  waste, 

Deals  out  his  blunders  by  the  dozens — 

The  wonder  of  his  country  cousins. 

That  these  are  some  of  the  drawbacks  on  the  pro- 
fession will,  I  believe,  be  readily  admitted  by  the 
great  majority  of"  its  members  : — 

But  yet  there  is  in  art  the  power 
To  give  to  life  its  sweetest  hour  ; 

F  2 


C8  death's  doings. 

To  show  the  charms  on  Nature's  face. 
To  fix  the  forms  of  truth  and  gi-ace. 
And  whether  on  Creation  rude. 
Or  rock,  or  desert  soUtude, — 
O'er  ocean,  cloud,  or  tranquil  sky,. 
The  painter  throws  a  heedful  eye  ; 
And  not  a  shrub,  a  flower,  a  tree. 
But  holds  some  latent  mystery. 
To  which  the  artist's  skill  alone 
Can  give  substantial  form  and  tone. 

Yes  !  and  while  the  elasticity  of  his  mind  remains, 
he  can  draw  pleasure  from  stores  ever  at  hand.  His 
imagination  can  range  the  wilds  of  his  own  creation, 
and  see  no  bounds  to  the  power  of  his  art.  Seduced 
by  the  delusive  nature  of  his  employment.  Time 
glides  imperceptibly  away,  while  he  paints  him  at 
rest ;  and  the  insidious  foe  to  life  marks,  in  the  ar- 
dour of  his  pursuit  and  the  intenseness  of  his  appli- 
cation, the  seeds  of  destruction,  and,  in  the  flame 
that  lights  up  his  genius,  the  consumer  of  his  days. 

R.  D. 


TME  c]rick:etem» 


69 


THE  GAME  OF  LIFE  ; 
4©r,  Beati)  among  t^e  ittiti^tter^. 


When  men  are  in  a  moralizing  strain. 
And  gravely  talk  about  the  brittle  stuff 
Of  which  poor  human  life  is  made, 
'Tis  ten  to  one, 
That,  ere  they've  done, 
They  shake  their  heads,  and  make  this  sage  reflection : 
That  Life  is  transitory,  fleeting,  vain — 

A  very  bubble ! 
With  pleasures  few  and  brief — but  as  for  pain. 
And  care,  and  trouble. 
There's  more  than  quantum  suff. — 
Nay,  quite  enough 
To  make  the  stoutest  heart  afraid. 
And  cloud  the  merriest  visage  with  dejection  ! 

And  then,  what  dismal  stories  are  invented 

About  this  "  vale  of  woe" — 
Zounds  !  'twere  enough  to  make  one  discontented. 

Whether  one  would,  or  ?io  ! 


70  death's  doings. 

Now  Life,  to  me,  has  always  seem'd  a  Game — 
Not  a  mere  game  of  chance,  but  one  where  skill 
Will  often  throw  the  chances  in  our  way — 

Just  like  (my  favourite  sport)  the  Game  of  Cricket ; 
Where,  tho'  the  match  be  well  contested,  still 

A  steady  Player,  careful  of  his  fame. 

May  have  a  good  long  Innings,  with  fair  play. 

Whoever  bowls,  or  stops,  or  keeps  the  wicket. 

Softly,  my  friend  !   (methinks  I  hear  Death  cry) 
Wlioever  bowls  !  you  say  ; — sure  you  forget 
That  in  Life's  feverish  fitful  game 
Jam  the  Bowler,  and  friend  Time  keeps  wicket: — 
Well !  be  it  so,  old  boy, — is  my  reply  ; 

I  know  you  do — but.  Master  Drybones,  yet 
My  argument  remains  the  same. 
And  I  can  prove  Life's  like  the  Game  of  Cricket ! 

Sometimes  a  Batsman's  lull'd  by  Bowler  Death, 
Who  throws  him  off  his  guard  with  easy  halls  ; 

Till  presently  a  rattler  stops  his  breath — 

He's  out!  Life's  candle's  snuff 'd — his  wicket  falls! 

In  goes  another  mate  :  Death  bowls  away — 
And  with  such  art  each  practis'd  method  tries. 

That  now  the  ball  winds  tortively  along, 

Now  slowly  rolls,  and  now  like  lightning  flies. 


THE  GAME  OF  LIFE.  71 

(Sad  proof  that  Death's  as  subtle  as  he's  strong!) 
But  this  rare  Batsman  keeps  a  watchful  eye 

On  every  motion  of  the  Bowler's  hand, 
And  stops,  or  hits,  as  suits  the  varying  play  ;— 
Though  Death  the  ball  may  ground,  or  toss  it  high. 

The  steady  Striker  keeps  his  self-command, 
And  blocks  with  care,  or  makes  it  swiftly  fly  : — 

Still  bent  on  victory,  Old  Drybones  plies 
With  patient  skill — but  every  effort  fails. 
Till  Time — \h^t  precious  Enemy — prevails. 

O  envious  Time  !  to  spoil  so  good  a  game ! 
Fear'dst  thou  that  Death  at  last  had  met  his  match. 
And  ne'er  could  bowl  him  out,  or  get  a  catch  ? 
Yea,  verily.  Old  Time,  thou  seeniclst  te  doubt 

The  Bowler's  skill — and  so,  to  save  his  fame, 
Didst  watch  the  popping -crease  with  anxious  eye. 
Until  the  wish'd-for  opportunity 
Arriv'd,  when  thou  couldst  stump  the  Batsman  out ! 
O^  what  a  Player !  how  active,  cheerful,  gay  ! 
His  "  Game  of  Life"  how  like  a  summer's  day  ! 
But  yet,  in  vain  'gainst  Death  and  Time  he  tries 
To  stand  his  ground — they  bear  away  the  prize — 
And,  foil'd  at  last,  he  yields  his  bat,  and — dies! 

Some  are  bowl'd  out  before  they've  got  a  notch. 
But   mates   like   these   can   helpmates    scarce   be 
reckon'd  ; 


72  death's  doings. 

Some  knock  their  wickets  down — while  others  botch 
And  boggle  so,  that  when  they  get  a  run, 
It  makes  Time  laugh  ;— Death,  too,  enjoys  the  fan. 
Shakes  his  spare  ribs  to  see  what  they  have  done, — 
Then  out  he  bowls  the  bunglers  in  a  second ! 

And  yet,  although  old  Messieurs  Death  and  Time 
Are  sure  to  come  off  winners  in  the  end, 

There's  something   in  this    "  Game  of  Life"  that's 
pleasant ; 

For  though  "  to  die!"  in  verse  may  sound  sublime — 

{Blank  verse  I  mean,  of  course — not  doggrel  rhyme). 
Such  is  the  love  I  bear  for  Life  and  Cricket, 
Either  at  single  or  at  double  wicket, 
I'd  rather  play  a  good  long  game,  and  spend 
My  time  agreeably  with  some  kind  friend, 

Than  throw  my  bat  and  ball  u^—just  at  present ! 

S.  M. 


*72 


VERSES  IN  PRAISE  OF  CRICKET.* 


BY  THE  REV.  M.  COTTON, 


Assist  all  ye  Muses,  and  join  to  rehearse 
An  old  English  sport,  never  prais'd  yet  in  verse ; 
'Tis  Cricket  T  sing  of,  illustrious  in  fame, — 
No  nation  e'er  boasted  so  noble  a  game. 


*  Our  thanks  are  due  to  Mr.  T.  W.  Bower,  Mathematical  Master 
in  the  School  of  Winchester  College,  for  the  MS.  copy  of  this  Song, 
written  more  than  half  a  century  since,  by  the  Rev.  M.  Cotton,  who 
at  that  time  was  the  Master  of  Hyde  Abbey  School,  in  that  city.  Instead 
of  offering  any  excuse  for  giving  it  a  place  in  "  Death's  Doings,"  we 
think  we  may  fairly  urge  the  following  as  reasons  why  it  ought  not  to 
be  withheld : — first,  that  it  is  eloquent  in  the  praise  of  the  game  of 
Cricket;  secondly,  that  it  not  only  commemorates  the  successful 
prowess  of  the  far-famed  Hambledon  Club,  which  at  one  time  was  the 
pride  of  Hampshire  and  the  envy  of  "  all  England,"  but  affords  us  an 
opportunity  of  introducing  a  biographical  sketch  of  the  last  survivor  of 
the  original  members  of  that  club  ;  and,  thirdly,  that  its  Author  was  the 
Conductor  of  a  School  which  has  had  the  honour  of  enrolling  in  its 
list  of  pupils  many  talented  youths  who,  in  after-life,  have  filled  the 
most  distinguished  stations — of  which  we  may  (without  appearing  in- 
vidious to  others)  adduce  a  brilliant  example  in  the  person  of  the  pre- 
sent enlightened  Secretary  of  State,  the  Right  Hon.  George  Canning. 

f5 


DliATH  S  DOINGS. 

Great  Pindar  has  bragg'd  of  his  heroes  of  old — 
Some  were  swift  in  the  race,  some  in  battle  were  bold ; 
The  brows  of  the  victors  with  olive  were  crown'd  ; 
Hark !   they  shout,  and  Olympia   returns   the   glad 
sound ! 

What  boasting  of  Castor,  and  Pollux, — his  brother ! 
The  one  fam'd  for  riding, — for  bruising  the  other ! 
Compar'd  with  our  heroes  they'll  not  shine  at  all ; 
What  were  Castor  and  Pollux  to  Nyren  and  Small?* 

*  The  whole  of  the  Hanibledon  Chib  have  now  been  bowled  down 
by  Death;  Mr.  John  Small,  Sen.  of  Petersfield,  Hants,  who  was  the 
last  survivor  of  the  original  members,  having  terminated  his  mortal 
career  on  the  31st  of  December,  1826,  aged  nearly  ninety  ! 

The  great  have  their  historians,  and  why  should  not  the  small  ? — 
nay,  since  every  one  in  the  present  day  exercises  his  right  of  publish- 
ing his  "  reminiscences,"  if  he  can  but  find  a  bookseller  who  is  bold 
enough  to  venture  on  the  speculation,  we  trust  we  shall  stand  excused 
for  preserving  a  few  stray  notices  of  this  venerable  Cricketer,  whose  ex- 
ploits were  once  the  theme  of  universal  praise,  and  whose  life  was  as 
amiable  as  his  station  was  humble. 

John  Small,  sen.  the  celebrated  Cricketer,  was  born  at  Empshott,  on 
the  19th  of  April,  1737,  and  went  to  Petersfield  when  about  six  years 
of  age,  where  he  afterwards  followed  the  trade  of  a  shoemaker  for 
several  years ;  but  being  remarkably  fond  of  Cricket,  and  excelling 
most  of  his  contemporaries  in  that  manly  amusement,  he  relinquished 
his  former  trade,  and  practised  the  making  of  bats  and  balls,  in  the 
art  of  which  he  became  equally  proficient  as  in  the  use  of  them  ;  and, 
accordingly,  we  find  that  these  articles  of  his  manufacture  were,  in  the 
course  of  a  short  time,  in  request  wherever  the  game  of  Cricket  was 
known. 

Mr.  Small  was  considered  the  surest  balsman  of  his  dav,  and  as  a 


VERStS  IN  PRAISE  OF  CRICKET. 

Here's  guarding-,   and   catching,   and   running,   and 

crossing. 
And  batting,  and  bowling,  and  throwing,  and  tossing; 
Each  mate  must  excel  in  some  principal  partj — 
The  Pantathlon  of  Greece  never  show'd  so  much  art, 

The  parties  are  met,  and  array'd  all  in  white ; 
Fam'd  Elis  ne'er  boasted  so  pleasing  a  sight ; 
Each  nymph  looks  askew  at  her  favourite  swain. 
And  views  him,  half  stript,  both  with  pleasure  and 
pain. 


fieldsman  he  was  decidedly  without  an  equal.  On  one  occasion,  in  a 
match  made  either  by  the  Duke  of  Dorset,  or  Sir  Horace  Mann  (for  we 
cannot  exactly  call  to  mind  which),  England  against  the  Hambledon 
Club,  Mr.  Small  was  in  three  whole  days,  though  opposed  to  some  of 
the  best  players  in  the  kingdom  j  nor  did  he  at  last  lose  his  wicket, 
his  ten  mates  having  all  had  their  wickets  put  down !  At  another 
time,  in  a  five-of-a-side  match,  played  in  the  Artillery-ground,  he  got 
seventy-five  runs  at  his  first  innings,  and  went  in,  the  last  mate,  for 
seven  runs,  which,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  were  soon  scored. 
On  this  occasion  the  Duke  of  Dorset,  being  desirous  of  compliment- 
ing him  for  his  skill,  and  knowing  that  Small  was  as  passionately  fond 
of  music  as  he  was  of  Cricket,  made  him  a  present  of  a  fine  violin, 
which  he  played  upon  many  years,  and  which  is  now  made  use  of  by 
his  grandson.  We  shall  not,  however,  enter  into  a  detail  of  the  numerous 
proofs  he  gave  of  his-  skill  as  a  Cricketer,  nor  of  the  flattering  testimo- 
nies of  approbation  he  at  various  times  received  from  the  patrons  of 
the  game ;  suffice  it  to  state,  that  the  first  county  match  he  played  in 
was  in  the  year  1755,  and  that  he  continued  playing  in  all  the  grand 
matches  till  after  he  was  seventy! 

Mr.  Small  was  also  an  excellent  sportsman  and  capital  shot.     He 
f6 


death's  doings. 

The  wickets  are  pitch'd  now  and  measur'd  the  ground. 
Then  they  form  a  large  ring  and  stand  gazing  around ; 
Since  Ajax  fought  Hector  in  sight  of  all  Troy, 
No  contest  was  seen  with  such  fear  and  such  joy. 

Ye  bowlers,  take  heed — to  my  precepts  attend  ; 
On  you  the  whole  fate  of  the  game  must  depend ; 
Spare  your  vigour  at  first,  nor  exert  all  your  strength. 
Then  measure  each  step,  and  be  sure  pitch  a  length. 


held  the  deputation  of  the  Manor  of  Greatham  and  Foley  for  many 
years,  as  gamekeeper,  under  Madam  Beckford,  and  retained  it  under 
her  son  and  successor,  till  the  property  was  parted  with,  which  did  not 
happen  till  Small  was  nearly  seventy  years  of  age ;  yet  such  was  his 
strength  and  activity  at  that  time  of  life,  that,  before  he  began  his  day's 
amusement,  he  regularly  took  his  tour  of  seven  miles,  frequently  doing 
execution  with  his  gun  which,  to  relate,  would  appear  almost  incredible. 

We  ought  also  to  mention  that,  among  other  active  exercises  for 
which  Mr.  Small  was  famed,  was  that  of  skating.  Those  who  have 
witnessed  his  evolutions  on  Petersfield  Heath  Pond  (a  fine  sheet  of 
%vater,  a  mile  in  circumference),  have  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  him 
equal  to  any  who  have  figured  away  on  the  Serpentine,  how-much 
soever  they  may  have  "  astonished  the  natives." 

But  we  turn  from  Mr.  Small's  athletic  amusements,  to  notice  his 
taste  for  music  ;  and  though  we  cannot  say  that  his  excellence  as  a  mu- 
sician was  equal  to  his  excellence  as  a  Cricketer,  still  among  his  com- 
peers he  was  pre-eminentt ;  and  we  liave  no  doubt  that  to  the  sooth- 
ing power  of  music  he  was  not  a  little  indebted  for  the  equanimity 
of  temper  he  possessed,  and  the  tranquil  delight  he  felt  in  the  company 
of  his  friends ; — for  those  who  knew  him  can  conscientiously  declare 
that  no  man  was  more  remarkable  for  playful  wit,  cheerfiil  conversa- 
tion, or  inoffensive  manners. 

So  early  did  he  display  his  taste  for  music,  that  at  fourteen  years  of 


VERSES  IN   PRAISE  OF  CRICKET. 

Ye  fieldsmen,  look  sharp  !  lest  your  pains  ye  beguile 
Move  close,  like  an  array,  in  rank  and  in  file ; 
When  the  ball  is  returned,  back  it  sure — for,  I  trow. 
Whole  states  have  been  ruin'd  by  one  overthrow. 

And  when  the  game's  o'er,  I  O  victory  rings ! 
Echo  doubles  her  chorus  and  Fame  spreads  her  wings ; 
Let's  now  hail  our  champions,  all  steady  and  true. 
Such  as  Homer  ne'er  sung  of,  nor  Pindar  e'er  knew. 

age  he  played  the  bass  in  Petersfield  Choir ;  of  which  choir  he  con- 
tinued a  member  about  seventy-five  years,  having  performed  on  the 
tenor  violin  there  within  the  last  twelve  months,  and  that,  too,  without 
jhe  aid  of  spectacles ! — After  what  has  been  said,  it  will  not  be  a  mat- 
ter of  surprise  to  hear  that  Mr.  Small  was  highly  respected  by  all  the 
gentlemen  who  patronized  Cricket ;  and,  as  they  knew  nothing  could 
gratify  him  more,  they  frequently  joined  in  a  concert  with  his  musical 
friends  after  Cricket  was  over  for  the   day. 

His  two  surviving  sons,  John  and  Eli,  not  only  inherit  his  love  for 
the  game,  but  the  first-mentioned  particularly  excels  in  it,  and  both 
are  equally  celebrated  for  their  musical  attainments j  indeed,  during 
their  father's  life  this  musical  trio  ranked  high  among  the  performers 
at  all  the  amateur  concerts  in  the  neighbourhood. 

O  that  our  readers  would  but  tolerate  our  "  fond  garrulity,"  for  much 
could  we  yet  inform  them  concerning  John  Small !  We  should  de- 
light in  telling  them  that  he  was  not  merely  a  player  on  the  violoncello 
and  violin,  but  that  he  was  both  a  maker  and  a  mender  of  them  ! — with 
pleasure  should  we  descant  on  his  mechanical,  as  well  as  his  musical 
skill,  and  show  that  his  proficiency  in  each  was  the  result  of  his  own  un- 
tutored ingenuity,  proving  that  he  had  a  natural  genius  for  fiddle-mak- 
ing, as  well  as  for  bat  and  ball  making— we  should  bring  proof  that  he 
once  made  a  violoncello,  aye,  and  a  right  good  one  too,  which  he  sold 
for  two  guineas — nay,  we  should  further  prove,  that  the  old  instru- 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 

Birch,*  Curry,*  and  Hogsflesh,*  and  Barber,*  and 

Brett,* 
Whose  swiftness  in  bowling  was  ne'er  equall'd  yet: 
I  had  almost  forgot — they  deserve  a  large  bumper. 
Little  George*  the  long-stop,  and  Tom  Suetor*  the 

stumper. 

Then  why  shouldwe  fear  either  Sackville  f  or  Mann,f 
Or  repine  at  the  loss  of  Boyntou  or  Lann? 
With  such  troops  as  these  we'll  be  lords  of  the  game. 
Spite  of  Miller,t  and  Minchin,t  and  Lumpy,t  and 
Frame.f 

ment  which  his  son,  the  present  John  Small,  plays  on  at  church  every 
Sunday  (made  by  Andria  Weber,  Genoa,  1713)  was  thoroughly  re- 
paired by  him,  and  an  entire  new  belly  put  thereto,  and  that  since  it 
has  been  so  repaired,  an  eminent  professor  has  pronounced  it  to  be 
worth  as  many  guineas  as  would  reach  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  oUier 
— we  should but  we  have  not  forgotten  the  old  pro- 
verb which  says  "  too  much  of  a  good  thing  is  good  for  nothing  j"  and 
we  desist,  fearing  that  too  much  may  be  said  even  of  our  old  fiiend, 
John  Small.  But,  notwithstanding  our  deference  to  the  proverb, 
and  our  wish  to  be  as  taciturn  as  possible,  there  is  one  more  musical 
anecdote  which  we  must  be  allowed  to  narrate,  inasmuch  as  it  not 
only  shows  that  our  praises  of  his  skill  are  by  no  means  exaggerated, 
but  because  it  cannot  fail  to  be  regarded  as  a  corroboration  of  a  most 
important  fact — the  influence  of  music  upon  the  brute  creation— or,  to 
speak  in  the  language  of  the  poet,  an  additional-  proof  that 
"  Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  heast  /" 
In  his  younger  days  Mr.  Small  was  in  the  habit  of  attending  balls 

'    ♦  Part  of  the  Hambledon  Club.  f  "  All-England  Men." 


VERSES  IN  PRAISE  OF  CRICKET. 

Then  fill  up  your  glasses !  he's  best  that  drinks  most ; 
Here's  the  Hambledon  Club !    Who  refuses  the  toast? 
Let  us  join  in  the  praise  of  the  bat  and  the  wicket. 
And  sing  in  full  chorus  the  patrons  of  Cricket. 

When  we've  play'd  our  last  game,  and  our  fate  shall 

draw  nigh, 
(For  the  heroes  of  Cricket,  like  others,  must  die,) 
Our  bats  we'll  resign,  neither  troubled  nor  vext. 
And  give  up  our  wickets  to  those  that  come  next. 


and  concerts  ;  sometimes  contributing  to  the  delight  of  the  gay  vota- 
ries of  Terpsichore — at  others,  forming  one  of  the  instrumental  band 
which  met  for  the  gratification  of  himself  and  his  amateur  friends. 
Returning  one  evening,  with  a  musical  companion,  from  a  concert  in 
the  neighbourhood,  they  were  rather  suddenly  saluted,  when  in  the 
middle  of  a  large  field,  by  a  hull,  who  in  no  very  gentle  mood  gave 
them  reason  to  believe  that,  to  insure  their  safety,  they  must  either 
hit  upon  some  expedient  to  allay  his  rage,  or  make  a  hasty  retreat. 
Mr.  Small's  companion  adopted  the  latter  plan  ;  but  our  hero,  like  a 
true  believer  in  the  miraculous  power  of  Orpheus,  and  confiding  in  his 
own  ability  to  produce  such  tones  as  should  charm  the  infuriate  ani- 
mal into  lamb-like  docility,  boldly  faced  him,  and  began  to  play  a 
lively  tune.  Scarce  had  the  catgut  vibrated,  when  the  bull  suddenly 
stopped,  and  listened  with  evident  signs  of  pleasure  and  attention. 
The  skilful  master  of  the  bow  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  on  discovering 
so  unquestionable  a  proof  of  the  influence  of  sweet  sounds;  and,  con- 
tinuing to  play,  while  he  gradually  retreated  towards  the  gate,  quietly 
followed  by  the  bull,  he  there  gave  his  quadruped  auditor  an  example 
of  his  agility  by  leaping  over  it,  and  unceremoniously  left  him  to  be- 
wail the  loss  of  so  agreeable  a  concert. 

Having  thus  given  such  memorabilia  in  the  life  of  Mr.  John  Small  as 


death's  doings. 

we  conceive  ought  to  be  handed  down  to  posterity,  and  (with  humi- 
lity be  it  spoken!)  hoping  to  obtain  some  distinction  for  ourselves  in 
this  necrological,  autobiographical,  and  reminiscent  age,  we  shall  close 
our  remarks  by  observing,  that  so  great  a  degree  of  health  and  vigour 
did  Mr.  Small  uninterruptedly  enjoy,  that  even  during  the  last  three  or 
four  years  he  took  the  most  active  exercise  as  a  sportsman,  and  fre- 
quently followed  the  hovmds  on  foot ! 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that,  by  an  attention  to  temperance  and  ex- 
ercise, and  by  encouraging  cheerfulness  and  equanimity  of  temper,  a 
man  may  still  attain  the  age  of  a  patriarch,  enjoying,  to  the  last,  health 
of  body,  peace  of  mind,  and  the  rational  amusements  of  life. 

Were  we  to  write  his  epitaph,  it  should  be  an  unlaboured  compo- 
sition of  quaint  simplicity — just  such  a  one  as  the  parish-clerk  him- 
self would  indite.  Something,  for  example,  after  the  following 
fashion  : — 

Here  lies,  bowl'd  out  by  Death's  unerring  ball, 
A  Cricketer  renown'd,  by  name  John  Small; 
But  though  his  name  was  Small,  yet  great  his  fame, 
For  nobly  did  he  play  the  "  noble  game." 
His  Life  was  like  his  Innings— \ox\%  and  good ; 
Full  ninety  summers  he  had  Death  withstood  ; 
At  length  the  ninetieth  winter  came — when  (Fate 
Not  leaving  him  one  solitary  mate,) 
This  last  oi  Hamhledonians,  old  John  Small, 
Gave  up  his  bat  and  ball — his  leather,  wax,  and  all. 

S.  M. 


73 


DEATH  AND  THE  CRICKETER. 


Hold,  cricketer !  your  game  has  now  been  long, 
Your  stops  and  battings,  numerous  and  strong ; 
But  see  !  Time  takes  the  wicket,  I  the  bowl — 
'Tis  vain  to  block — your  innings  are  all  full." 


This  allegorical  representation  of  Time  and  Death 
engaged  at  cricket,  though  of  general  application, 
has  a  more  especial  reference  to  an  individual, 
whose  skill  at  an  advanced  age  gave  rise  to  the 
design,  which  was  suggested  by  a  friend  and  com- 
panion. The  following  sketch  of  his  character  is 
given  by  one  who  knew  him  long  and  well. 

Poor  T B !   little  did  I  image  to  myself 

in  your  boyish  days  of  fifty,  that  I  should  have  wit- 
nessed the  wreck  of  so  much  buoyant  mirth  and 
spirits — that  I  should  have  seen  a  kindness  of  heart 
bordering  on  childish  weakness,  sinking  beneath 
the  pressure  (not  of  misfortune,  or  the  common  ca- 
lamities  of  life,    but)  of  an  ill-placed  confidence, 


74  death's  doings. 

and  the  "  sharp-toothed  unkindness  of  a  trusted 
friend." — But  a  truce  to  this — Death  has  not  indeed 
quite  bowled  thee  out ;  but  Time  has  taken  thy 
wicket — and  thou  art  now  only  a  looker-on. 

T B ,   like  many   other  men,   had    his 

hobby, — it  was  cricket;  but  then  he  had  his  hacks 
for  ordinary  occasions.  There  was  his  pugilistic 
hack, — his  game  of  draughts, — his  game,  too,  of 
marbles  —  yes  —  insignificant  as  these  playthings 
may  seem  in  the  eyes  of  the  sober,  the  learned,  and 
the  scientific,  it  would  have  amazed  them  to  see 
the  steadiness  of  his  hand — the  correctness  of  bis 
eye — the  certainty  of  his  shot.  Not  the  most  skilful 
billiard-player  could  pocket  his  ball  under  the  most 

adverse  circumstances,   better  than  could  B 

take  his  adversary's  taw  in  the  most  difficult  situa- 
tion. It  was  like  magic.  The  brain  of  a  philoso- 
pher might  have  been  set  to  work  by  it  in  consider- 
ing the  wonderful  connexion  between  the  eye  and 
the  hand,  or  an  engineer  might  have  taken  a  hint 
from  it  for  directing  his  operations  in  the  art  of 
gunnery. 

With  what  pride  would   our  veteran  of  the  bat 
relate  the  notches  that  he  made,  and  the  bets  that 


DEATH  AND  THE  CRICKETER.  75 

were  laid  on  his  skill, — aye,  and  the  odds  that  were 
always  taken  in  his  favour,  both  at  cricket  and  at 
taw  ! 

If  you  are  not  proud,  reader,  you  may  in  ima- 
gination accompany  me  to  the  sign  of  ,   at 

Walworth,  or  to   the  ■ ,  at  Battersea,  or  any 

other  sign  in  that  neighbourhood  that  signifies  the 
presence  of  pipes,  ale,  and  tobacco  ;  where  you  will 
see  a  smooth  piece  of  ground,  on  which  is  marked  a 
ring,  filled  with  marbles.  But  this  is  not  the  grand 
match,  it  is  only  the  rehearsal ;  yet  are  the  players 
no  less  in  earnest;  nor  are  the  spectators  less  intent 
on  the  play,  or  less  sapient  in  remarking  on  the 
various  hits  and  misses  that  take  place  ;  while  every 
one  is  evidently  satisfied  in  his  own  mind  that  he 
can  tell  how  this  or  that  player  might  have  made 
better  shots. 

But  there  is  a  silent  observer,  who  appears  to 
take  no  particular  interest  in  the  sport,  but  who  at 
the  end  of  the  rehearsal  approaches  our  hero,  with 
this  question, — "  Are  you  not,  sir,  to  play  a  match 

at ?"— "  Yes,"was  the  reply.-"  Then  I'll  not 

play ;   I'll  pay  the  forfeit." 


7(i  death's  doings. 

This  was  one  oi"  the  many  triumphs  poor  B 

obtained,  in  marbles  and  at  cricket;  in  draughts,  too, 
equal  success  awaited  his  skill ;  and  it  was  his  owti 
powers  that  gained  him  his  victories.  It  was  not  his 
horse,  or  his  dog,  that  gave  him  credit,  as  by  proxy. 
Is  the  man  at  Doncaster,  York,  or  Newmarket,  an 
inch  the  taller,  or  a  whit  the  better,  that  the  strength 
or  speed  of  his  mare  or  gelding  wins  the  race? 
Even  his  brethren  of  the  turf  think  him  not  a  skilful, 

but  a  lucky  dog.      B 's  good  fortune  was  of  a 

different  kind — it  was  the  work  of  his  own  crea- 
tion. 

It  may  so  happen  that  the  possessor  and  the  thing 
possessed  may  have  mutual  relations,  and  reflect 
credit  the  one  on  the  other.  The  possessor  of  an 
English  house  and  grounds  may  be  a  man  of  taste ; 
the  collector  of  pictures,  a  man  of  judgment;  that 
of  antiquities,  a  man  of  virtu  ;  and  so  on ;  but  to 
suppose  that  any  or  all  of  these  should  obtain  credit 
from  the  mere  possession,  would  be  idle  in  the  ex- 
treme :  we  might  just  as  well  attribute  to  the  vase 
the  sweetness  of  the  flowers  it  contains,  or  praise  the 
pedestal  that  sustains  the  statue,  or  panegyrize  the 
frame  that  holds  the  picture. 


DEATH  AND  THE  CRICKETER.  77 

But  it  is  the  game  of  cricket*  that  should  occupy 
the  principal  place  in  these  remarks  ;  and  though  it 

*  "  I  doubt  if  there  be  any  scene  in  the  world  more  animating  or 
dehghtful  than  a  cricket-match,"  says  Miss  Mitford,  in  the  first  volume 
of  "  Our  Village,"  where  she  describes — "  not  a  set  match  at  Lord's 
Ground  for  money,"  but — "  a  real  solid  old-fashioned  match  between 
neighbouring  parishes,  where  each  attacks  the  other  for  honour  and  a 
supper,  glory  and  half-a-crown  a  man."  Indeed,  so  full  of  genuine 
character — so  expressive  of  rustic  feelings — and,  altogether,  so  admi- 
rably well  related,  is  her  history  of  a  country  cricket-match,  that  we 
are  irresistibly  led  to  quote  a  very  considerable  portion  of  it.  Miss  M. 
writes,  as  will  be  seen,  not  only  with  all  the  ardour  of  a  partisan,  but 
like  one  who  well  understands  the  subject. 

"  Thus  ran  our  list: — William  Grey,  1. — Samuel  Long,  2. — James 
Brown,  3. — George  and  John  Simmons,  one  capital,  the  other  so,  so, 
— an  uncertain  hitter,  but  a  good  fieldsman,  5. — Joel  Brent,  excellent, 
6. — Ben  Appleton — Here  was  a  little  pause — Ben's  abilities  at  cricket 
were  not  completely  ascertained ;  but  then  he  was  so  good  a  fellow,  so 
full  of  fun  and  waggery !  no  doing  without  Ben.  So  he  figured  in 
the  list,  7. — George  Harris — a  short  halt  there  too !  Slowish — slow, 
but  sure.  I  think  the  proverb  brought  him  in,  8. — Tom  Coper — oh, 
beyond  the  world,  Tom  Coper !  the  red-headed  gardening  lad,  whose 
left-handed  strokes  send  her  (a  cricket-ball,  like  that  other  moving 
thing,  a  ship,  is  always  of  the  feminine  gender),  send  her  spinning  a 
mile,  9. — ^Robert  Willis,  another  blacksmith,  10. 

"  We  had  now  ten  of  our  eleven,  but  the  choice  of  the  last  occa- 
sioned some  demur.  Three  young  Martins,  rich  farmers  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, successively  presented  themselves,  and  were  all  rejected  by 
our  independent  and  impartial  general  for  want  of  merit — crlcketal 
merit.  '  Not  good  enough,'  was  his  pithy  answer.  Then  our  worthy 
neighbour,  the  half-pay  lieutenant,  offered  his  services — he,  too, 
though  with  some  hesitation  and  modesty,  was  refused — *  Not  quite 
young  enough,'  was  his  sentence,  John  Strong,  the  exceedingly  long 
son  of  our  dwarfish  mason,  was  the  next  candidate, — a  nice  youth — 
every  body  likes  John  Strong,^-and  a  willing,  but  so  tall  and  so  limp. 


78  death's  doings. 

is  not  apparently  so  connected  with  Danger  and 
Death  as  war,  or  the  hunting  of  wild  animals,  it  is 

bent  in  the  middle — a  Ihread-paper,  six  feet  high  !  We  were  all  afraid 
that,  in  spite  of  his  name,  his  strength  would  never  hold  out.  '  Wait 
till  next  year,  John,'  quoth  William  Grey,  with  all  the  dignified  se- 
niority of  twenty  speaking  to  eighteen.  '  Coper's  a  year  yovmger,' 
said  John.  '  Coper's  a  foot  shorter,'  replied  William :  so  John  re- 
tired} and  the  eleventh  man  remained  imchosen,  almost  till  the 
eleventh  hour.  The  eve  of  the  match  arrived,  and  the  post  was  still 
vacant,  when  a  little  boy  of  fifteen,  David  Willis,  brother  to  Robert, 
admitted  by  accident  to  the  last  practice,  saw  eight  of  them  out,  and 
was  voted  in  by  acclamation. 

"  That  Sunday  evening's  practice  (for  Monday  was  the  important 
day)  was  a  period  of  great  anxiety,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  of  great  plea- 
sure. There  is  something  strangely  delightful  in  the  innocent  spirit  of 
party.  To  be  one  of  a  numerous  body,  to  be  authorised  to  say  we,  to 
have  a  rightful  interest  in  triumph  or  defeat,  is  gratifying  at  once  to 
social  feeling  and  to  personal  pride.  There  was  not  a  ten-year  old 
urchin,  or  a  septuagenary  woman  in  the  parish,  who  did  not  feel  an 
additional  importance,  a  reflected  consequence,  in  speaking  of  •  our 
side.'  An  election  interests  in  the  same  way ;  but  that  feeling  is  less 
pure.  Money  is  there,  and  hatred,  and  politics,  and  lies.  Oh,  to  be  a 
voter,  or  a  voter's  wife,  comes  nothing  near  the  genuine  and  hearty 
sympathy  of  belonging  to  a  parish,  breathing  the  same  air,  looking  on 
the  same  trees,  listening  to  the  same  nightingales !  Talk  of  a  patriotic 
elector ! — Give  me  a  parochial  patriot,  a  man  who  lo  ves  his  parish  I 
Even  we,  the  female  partisans,  may  partake  the  common  ardour.  I  am 
sure  I  did.  I  never,  though  tolerably  eager  and  enthusiastic  at  all 
times,  remember  being  in  a  more  delicious  state  of  excitation  than  on 
the  eve  of  that  battle.  Our  hopes  waxed  stronger  and  stronger.  Those 
of  our  players,  who  were  present,  were  excellent.  William  Grey  got 
forty  notches  off  his  own  bat;  and  that  briUiant  hitter,  Tom  Coper, 
gained  eight  from  two  successive  balls.  As  the  evening  advanced,  too, 
we  had  encouragement  of  another  sort.  A  spy,  who  had  been 
despatched  to  reconnoitre  the  enemy's  quarters,  returned  from  their 


DEATH   AND  THE  CRICKETER.  79 

yet  a  service  of  danger,  and  has  been  fatal  to  many : 
and  T  remember  it  is  related  by  Wraxall,  that  his 

practising  ground,  with  a  most  consolatory  report.  '  Really,'  said 
Charles  Grover,  our  intelligencer — a  fine  old-  steady  judge,  one  who 
had  played  well  in  his  day — '  they  are  no  better  than  so  many  old  wo- 
men. Any  five  of  ours  would  beat  their  eleven.'  This  sent  us  to  bed 
in  high  spirits. 

"  Morning  dawned  less  favourably.  The  sky  promised  a  series  of 
deluging  showers,  and  kept  its  word,  as  English  skies  were  wont  to  do 
on  such  occasions ;  and  a  lamentable  message  arrived  at  the  head- 
quarters from  our  trusty  comrade,  Joel  Brent.  His  master,  a  great  far- 
mer, had  begun  the  hay-harvest  that  very  morning,  and  Joel,  being  as 
eminent  in  one  field  as  in  another,  could  not  be  spared.  Imagine 
Joel's  plight !  the  most  ardent  of  all  our  eleven  !  a  knight  held  back 
from  the  tourney !  a  soldier  from  the  battle !  The  poor  swaBi  was  in- 
consolable. At  last,  one  who  is  always  ready  to  do  a  good-natured 
action,  great  or  little,  set  forth  to  back  his  petition ;  and,  by  dint  of  ap- 
pealing to  the  public  spirit  of  our  worthy  neighbour,  and  the  state  of 
the  barometer,  talking  alternately  of  the  parish  honour  and  thunder- 
showei-s,  of  lost  matches  and  sopped  hay,  he  carried  his  point,  and  re- 
turned triimiphantly  with  the  delighted  Joel. 

"  In  the  mean  time  we  became  sensible  of  another  defalcation.  On 
calling  over  our  roll.  Brown  was  missing ;  and  the  spy  of  the  preced- 
ing night,  Charles  Grover, — the  universal  scout  and  messenger  of  the 
village,  a  man  who  will  ran  half  a  dozen  miles  for  a  pint  of  beer,  who 
does  errands  for  the  very  love  of  the  trade,  who,  if  he  had  been  a  lord, 
would  have  been  an  ambassador — was  instantly  despatched  to  siun- 
mon  the  truant.  His  report  spread  general  consternation.  Brown  had 
set  oflF  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  play  in  a  cricket-match  at  M., 
a  little  town  twelve  miles  off,  which  had  been  his  last  residence.  Here 
was  desertion !  Here  was  treachery  !  Here  was  treason  against  that 
goodly  state,  our  parish!  To  send  James  Brown  to  Coventry  was 
the  immediate  resolution  ;  but  even  that  seemed  too  light  a  punish- 
ment for  such  delinquency.  Then  how  we  cried  him  down  !  At  ten, 
on  Sunday  night  (for  the  rascal  had  actually  practised  with  us,  and 


80  death's  doings, 

present  Majesty's  grandfather  got  his  death  (though 
not  immediately)  by  the  blow  of  a  cricket-ball: — to 

never  said  a  word  of  his  intended  disloyalty),  he  was  our  faithful  mate, 
and  the  best  player  (take  him  for  all  in  all)  of  the  eleven.  At  ten  in 
the  morning  he  had  run  away,  and  we  were  well  rid  of  him  ;  he  was 
no  batter  compared  with  William  Grey  or  Tom  Coper ;  not  fit  to  wipe 
the  shoes  of  Samuel  Long,  as  a  bowler :  nothing  of  a  scout  to  John 
Simmons ;  the  boy  David  Willis  was  worth  fifty  of  him — 

*  I  trust  we  have  within  our  realm 
Five  hundred  good  as  he,' 

was  the  universal  sentiment.  So  we  took  tall  John  Strong,  who,  with 
an  incurable  hankering  after  the  honour  of  being  admitted,  had  kept 
constantly  with  the  players,  to  take  the  chance  of  some  such  accident 
— we  took  John  for  our  pis-aller.  I  never  saw  any  one  prouder  than 
the  good-humoured  lad  was  of  this  not  very  flattering  piece  of  prefer- 
ment. 

"  John  Strong  was  elected,  and  Brown  sent  to  Coventry ;  and,  when 
I  first  heard  of  his  delinquency,  I  thought  the  pimishment  only  too 
mild  for  the  crime.  But  I  have  since  learned  the  secret  history  of  the 
offence  (if  we  could  know  the  secret  histories  of  all  offences,  how  much 
better  the  world  would  seem  than  it  does  now !)  and  really  my  wrath  is 
much  abated.  It  was  a  piece  of  gallantry,  of  devotion  to  the  sex,  or 
rather  a  chivalrous  obedience  to  one  chosen  fair.  I  must  tell  my  rea- 
ders the  story.  Mary  Allen,  the  prettiest  girl  of  M.,  had,  it  seems,  re- 
venged upon  our  blacksmith  the  numberless  inconstancies  of  which  he 
stood  accused.  He  was  in  love  over  head  and  ears,  but  the  nymph  was 
cruel.  She  said  no,  and  no,  and  no  ;  and  poor  Brown,  three  times  re- 
jected, at  last  resolved  to  leave  the  place,  partly  in  despair,  and  partly 
in  that  hope  which  often  mingles  strangely  with  a  lover's  despair,  the 
hope  that  when  he  was  gone  he  should  be  missed.  He  came  home  to 
his  brother's  accordingly ;  but  for  five  weeks  he  heard  nothing  from  or 
of  the  inexorable  Mary,  and  was  glad  to  beguile  his  own  '  vexing 
thoughts,'  by  endeavouring  to  create  in  his  mind  an  artificial  and  fac- 


DEATH  AND  Tfl  IC   CRICKETER.  81 

say  nothing  of  the  maay  fractures  and  contusions  in- 
cident to  this  manly  and  skilful  exercise. 


titious  interest  in  our  cricket-match — all  unimportant  as  such  a  trifle 
must  have  seemed  to  a  man  in  love.  Poor  James,  however,  is  a  social 
and  waim-hearted  person,  not  likely  to  resist  a  contagious  sympathy. 
As  the  time  for  the  play  advanced,  the  interest  which  he  had  at  first 
affected  became  genuine  and  sincere :  and  he  was  really,  when  he  had 
left  the  ground  on  Sunday  night,  almost  as  enthusiastically  absorbed 
in  the  event  of  the  next  day  as  Joel  Brent  himself.  He  little  foresaw 
the  new  and  delightful  interest  which  awaited  him  at  home,  where,  on 
the  moment  of  his  arrival,  his  sister-in-law  and  confidante  presented 
him  with  a  billet  from  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  had,  M'ith  the  usual  de- 
lay of  letters  sent  by  private  hands,  in  that  rank  of  life,  loitered  on  the 
road  in  a  degree  inconceivable  to  those  who  are  accustomed  to  the 
punctual  speed  of  the  post,  and  had  taken  ten  days  for  its  twelve-miles' 
journey.  Have  my  readers  any  wish  to  see  this  billet-doiLv  ?  I  can 
show  them  (but  in  strict  confidence)  a  literal  copy.     It  was  addressed, 

'  For  mistur  jem  browne 
*  blaxmith  by 
'S.' 

*'  The  inside  ran  thus : — '  Mistur  browne  this  is  to  Inform  yew  that 
oure  parish  playes  bramley  next  monday  is  a  week,  i  think  we  shall 
lose  without  yew.     from  your  humbell  servant  to  command 

'  Marv  Allen.' 

"  Was  there  ever  a  prettier  relenting  ?  a  summons  more  flattering, 
more  delicate,  more  irresistible  ?  The  precious  epistle  was  undated ; 
but,  having  ascertained  who  brought  it,  and  found,  by  cross-examining 
the  messenger,  that  the  Monday  in  question  was  the  very  next  day,  "we 
were  not  surprised  to  find  that  Mistui-  browne  forgot  his  engagement  to 
us,  forgot  all  but  Mary  and  Mary's  letter,  and  set  off  at  four  o'clock 
next  morning  to  walk  twelve  miles,  and  play  for  her  parish  and  in  her 
sight.  Really  we  must  not  send  James  Brown  to  Coventry — must  we  ? 
Though  if,  as  his  sister-in-law  tells  our  damsel  Harriet  he  hopes  to  do, 
he  should  bring  the  fair  Mary  home  as  his  bride,  he  will  not  greatly 


82  death's  doings. 

Nothing  is  known  of  the  origin  or  history  of  this 
game  but  that  it  is  purely  English ;  and  it  perhaps 
deserves   as   many    encomiums    as   Roger  Aschara 

care  how  little  we  say  to  him.  But  he  must  not  be  sent  to  Coventry 
— True-love  forbid! 

"  At  last  we  were  all  assembled,  and  marched  down  to  H.  common, 
the  appointed  ground,  which,  though  in  our  dominions  according  to 
the  map,  was  the  constant  practising  place  of  our  opponents,  and  terra 
incognita  to  us.  We  found  our  adversaries  on  the  ground,  as  we  ex- 
pected, for  our  various  delays  had  hindered  us  from  taking  the  field  so 
early  as  we  wished ;  and,  as  soon  as  we  had  settled  all  preliminaries, 
the  match  began. 

'*  But,  alas !  I  have  been  so  long  settling  my  preliminaries  that  I 
have  left  myself  no  room  for  the  detail  of  our  victory,  and  must  squeeze 
the  account  of  our  grand  achievements  into  as  little  compass  as  Cow- 
ley, when  he  crammed  the  names  of  eleven  of  his  mistresses  into  the 
narrow  space  of  four  eight-syllable  lines.  They  began  the  warfare — 
these  boastful  men  of  B.  And  what  think  you,  gentle  reader,  was  the 
amount  of  their  innings  ?  These  challengers — the  famous  eleven — how- 
many  did  they  get  ?  Think  !  imagine !  guess ! — You  cannot  ? — Well ! 
— ^they  got  twenty-two,  or  rather  they  got  twenty ;  for  two  of  theirs 
were  short  notches,  and  would  never  have  been  allowed,  only  that, 
seeing  what  they  were  made  of,  we  and  our  umpire  were  not  particular. 
— They  should  have  had  twenty  more  if  they  had  chosen  to  claim 
them.  Oh,  how  well  we  fielded !  and  how  well  we  bowled !  our  good 
play  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with  their  miserable  failure  as  their  bad. 
Samuel  Long  is  a  slow  bowler,  George  Simmons  a  fast  one,  and  the 
change  from  Long's  lobbing  to  Simmons's  fast  balls  posed  them  com- 
pletely. Poor  simpletons !  they  were  always  wrong,  expecting  the 
slow  for  the  quick,  and  the  quick  for  the  slow.  Well,  we  went  in. 
And  what  were  our  innings  ?  Guess  again ! — guess!  A  hundred  and 
sixty-nine !  In  spite  of  soaking  showers,  and  wretched  ground,  where 
the  ball  would  not  run  a  yard,  we  headed  them  by  a  hundred  and 
forty-seven ;  and  then  they  gave  in,  as  well  they  might,  William 
Grey  pressed  them  much  to  try  another  innings.  *  There  was  so  much 
chance,'  as  he  cautiously  observed,  '  in  cricket,  that,  advantageous  as  our 


DEATH  AND  TflE  CRICKETER.  83 

bestows  on  his  favourite  archery,  or  Isaac  Walton 
pours  forth  when  descanting  on  the  art  of  angling. 

What  Dr.  Johnson  has  so  judiciously  and  so  ele- 
gantly applied  in  a  dedication  to  Payne's  Treatise 
on  the  Game  of  Draughts,  might  equally  be  said  of 
the  game  of  cricket,  or  even  of  that  of  marbles.* 

'*  Triflers,"  observers  the  profound  critic,  "  may 
find  or  make  any  thing  a  trifle ;  but  since  it  is  the 
characteristic  of  a  wise  man  to  see  events  in  their 
causes,  to  obviate  consequences,  and  to  ascertain 
contingencies,  your  lordship  will  think  nothing  a 
trifle  by  which  the  mind  is  inured  to  caution,  fore- 
sight, and  circumspection.  The  same  skill,  and 
often  the  same  degree  of  skill,  is  exerted  in  great  and 
in  little  things. 

position  seemed,  we  might,  very  possibly,  be  overtaken.  The  B.  men 
had  better  try.'  But  they  were  beaten  sulky,  and  would  not  move 
— to  my  great  disappointment ;  I  wanted  to  prolong  the  pleasure  of 
success.  What  a  glorious  sensation  it  is  to  be  for  five  hours  together 
winning — winning — winning!  always  feeling  what  a  whist-player 
feels  when  he  takes  up  four  honours,  seven  trumps !  Who  would 
think  that  a  little  bit  of  leather,  and  two  pieces  of  wood,  had  such  a 
delightful  and  delighting  power?" 

*  This  dedication,  under  the  name  of  Payne,  is  "To  the  Right 
Honourable  William  Heru-y,  Earl  of  Rochford,  &c." 

g2 


84  death's  doings. 

It  may  also  be  observed  that  in  drawing  a  parallel 
between  the  game  of  life  and  that  of  cricket,  there 
is  more  aptness  of  allusion  than  may  at  first  strike 
the  reader ;  for  in  the  former,  as  in  the  latter  game, 
there  is  much  to  do,  and  much  to  guard  against; 
and  if  any  runs  are  made,  in  the  way  of  speculation, 
whether  of  pleasure  or  of  gain,  they  must  be  made 
with  caution,  skill,  and  vigour ;  or  the  presumptu- 
ous adventurer,  through  some  adverse  event,  will 
inevitably  be  bowled  out ! 

Barnard  Batwell. 


THE    TAFTIVE. 


85 


DEATH  AND  THE  CAPTIVE. 


Liberty  !  Liberty  !*  thou  hast  heard 

My  weary  prayer  at  length. 
But  the  plumeless  wing  of  the  captive  bird 

Is  shorn  of  its  buoyant  strength  ; 
I  am  too  weary  now  to  roam 

Through  sun-light  and  the  air. 
To  bear  me  to  my  mountain  home. 

Or  joy  if  I  were  there. 

Liberty  !  Liberty  !  thou  hast  been 

The  prayer  of  my  burning  heart. 
Till  the  silent  thoughts  that  were  within 

Into  life  and  form  would  start ; 
And,  oh  !  the  glorious  dreams  that  roll'd. 

Like  scenes  of  things  that  be. 
And  voices  of  the  night  that  told — 

*'  The  captive  and  the  earth  are  free  !" 

*  The  author,  in  order,  as  it  would  appear,  to  avoid  the  almost 
inevitable  monotony  of  the  subject,  has  represented  the  Captive  as  at 
first  mistaking  the  Vision  of  the  King  of  Terrors  for  that  of  Liberty — 
the  burning  passionate  hope  of  the  heart,  cherished  through  years  of 
gloom,  may  well,  indeed,  be  imagined  to  have  this  effect  in  the  fever- 
ish excitement  of  struggling  nature.— Editor. 


86  death's  doings. 

Liberty  !  Liberty  !  I  have  prayed 

To  see  thy  form  again, 
And  borne,  with  spirit  undecayed. 

The  dungeon  and  the  chain  ; 
But  darkling  art  thou  come  to  me. 

In  silence  and  in  dread. 
And  round  thee  many  a  form  I  see 

Of  thine  own  tombless  dead. 

Oh  !  altered  is  that  glorious  mien. 

That  burning  brow  of  pride, 
That  shone  before  me  in  the  scene 

Where  patriot  thousands  died ; 
Oh !  changed  since  when  I  bore  the  brand 

In  glory  and  in  youth. 
And  saw  my  leagued  brothers  stand 

For  Freedom  and  the  truth. 

Long  years  of  woe  have  chill'd  my  breast. 

And  faint  my  spirit  grows, — 
Here  now  my  drooping  head  might  rest. 

And  here  could  find  repose  ; 
But  darkly  as  thy  shadow  gleams 

Before  my  weary  gaze. 
Thou  hast  brought  back  the  blessed  dreams 

Of  youth's  unclouded  days. 


DEATH  AND  THE  CAPTIVE.  87 

Oh  !  lead  me  forth  where'er  thy  reign. 

Where'er  thy  dwelling  be  ; 
I  would  bear  all  I've  borne  again. 

To  feel  one  moment  free  ; 
To  feel  my  soul  no  longer  press'd 

By  this  dim  night  of  woe, — 
To  know,  where'er  this  heart  may  rest. 

The  living  light  shall  flow. 

Frown  not !  I  once  could  brave  for  thee 

The  dagger  at  my  side, — 
And  I  have  borne  the  misery 

That  few  could  bear  beside. 
There  were  who  loved  me, — where  are  they  ? 

Friends,  country,  home,  and  name, — 
They  have  passed  like  a  dream  away, 

But  left  my  heart  the  same. 

I've  bartered  all  to  see  thee  smile 

Upon  my  native  shore ; 
Nor  change  I,  though  my  rest  the  while 

Be  on  a  dungeon-floor. 
The  love  of  woman,  or  man's  praise, 

I  sigh  not  now  for  them, — 
It  is  enough  that  distant  days 

Shall  wear  thy  diadem. 


88  death's  doings. 

Yet  leave  me  not  again  to  lie 

Through  untold  years  of  gloom, 
I  would  once  more  behold  the  sky 

And  earth's  unwasted  bloom  ; 
Not  yet  hath  hung  the  chilly  air 

So  murky  in  my  cell, — 
The  heavy  darkness  seems  to  glare. 

The  dreary  night-gales  swell. 

And  art  thou  she — the  holy  one  ! 

Whose  banner  o'er  the  world. 
Before  their  destined  race  was  run. 

Chiefs,  prophets,  saints,  unfurled  ; 
Art  thou  the  starry  form  that  bowed 

Beside  the  patriot's  shield. 
When,  with  clos'd  lips  and  bosom  proud. 

They  bore  him  from  the  field  ? 

Thou  art  not  she, — I  know  thee  now  ! 

The  glorious  dream  is  past, — 
There  is  a  fever  on  my  brow. 

And  life  is  ebbing  fast. 
Unmoved  I  bow  me  to  thy  power. 

Stern  friend  of  human  kind  ! 
Thou  canst  not  make  the  spirit  cower, 

A  dungeon  could  not  bind. 

H.  S. 


so 


THE    CAPTIVE. 


Co  IBeatt). 


Who  treads  my  dungeon,  wild  and  pale  ? 
Or  do  my  weary  eyeballs  fail  ? 
And  art  thou  of  the  shapes  that  swim 
Across  my  midnight,  sad  and  dim. 
Where  in  one  deep  confusion  blend 
The  forms  of  enemy  and  friend  ? 
Shut  out  by  mountain  and  by  wave. 
Or  slumbering  in  the  ancient  grave. 

Ha  !  fearful  Thing  !  —I  know  thee  now, 

Thy  hollow  eye,  thy  bony  brow,— 

I  feel  thy  chill,  sepulchral  breath ; 

Spare  me,— dark  King  !  pale  Terror  !  Death  ! 

Still  let  me,  on  this  bed  of  stone. 

Pour  to  the  night  the  captive's  groan ; 

Still  wither  in  the  captive's  chain, — 

Still  struggle,  hope,  in  vain— in  vain  ; 

Still  live  the  slave  of  other's  will,— 

But  let  me  live,  grim  Spectre,  still ! 


90 


death's  doings. 


I  faint ;  thy  touch  is  on  me  now— 

I  feel  no  sting,  no  fiery  throe  : 

My  fetters  fall  beneath  thy  hand  ! 

I  see  thee  now  before  me  stand. 

No  shape  of  fear  !     My  fading  eyes 

Behold  thee.  Servant  of  the  Skies  ! 

Crowns  thy  bright  brow  the  immortal  wreath. 

Celestial  odours  round  thee  breathe. 

Spreads  on  the  air  thy  splendid  plume, — 

Welcome,  thou  angel  of  the  tomb! 

Alfred. 


THIE    GAMESTER, 


91 


THE  GAMESTER. 


{By  the  Author  of  '•  Dartmoor") 


Loud  howl'd  the  winter  storm, — athwart  the  sky 
Rush'd  the  big  clouds, — the  midnight  gale  was  high  ; 
O'er  the  proud  city  sprang  th'  avenging  flash. 
And  tower  and  temple  trembled  to  the  crash 
Of  the  great  thunder-peal.     Again  the  light 
Swift  tore  the  dark  veil  from  the  brow  of  night ; — 
And,  ere  the  far-chas'd  darkness,  closing  round 
As  the  flame  vanish'd,  fell  still  more  profound. 
Again  the  near-heard  tempest,  wild  and  dread. 
Spake  in  a  voice  that  might  awake  the  dead  ! 
Yet  while  the  lightning  burn'd — the  thunder  roar'd— 
And  even  Virtue  trembled — and  ador'd — 
Alone  was  heard  within  the  gamester's  hell 
The  gamester's  curse — the  oath — the  frantic  yell  I 
Fix'd  to  one  spot — intense — the  burning  eye 
Mark'd  not  the  flash — saw  but  the  changeful  die ! — 
And,  deaf  to  heaven's  high  peal, — one  demon  vice 
Possess'd  their  souls — triumphant  avarice  ! 


92  death's  doings. 

Loud  howl'd  the  winter  storm : — night  wore  away 
Too  slow,  and  thousands  watch'd,  and  wish'd  for  day  ;- 
And  there  was  one  poor,  lonely,  lovely  thing. 
Who  sat  and  shudder'd  as  the  wild  gale's  wing 
Rush'd  by — all  mournfully.     Her  children  slept 
As  the  poor  mourner  gaz'd — and  sigh'd — and  wept ! 
Why  sits  that  anguish  on  her  faded  brow  ? 
Why  droops  her  eye  ? — Ah,  Florio,  where  art  thou  ? 
Flown  are  thy  hours  of  dear  domestic  bliss — 
The  fond  embrace — the  husband's — father's — kiss — 
Bless'd  tranquil  hours  to  Love  and  Virtue  given, 
Delicious  joys  that  made  thy  home— a  heaven ! 
Flown — and  for  ever; — love — fame— virtue — sold 
For  lucre—for  the  sordid  thirst  of  gold  ;— 
The  craving,  burning  wish  that  will  not  rest. 
The  vulture-passion  of  the  human  breast — 
The  thirst  for  that  which— granted  or  denied — 
Still  leaves— still  leaves — the  soul  unsatisfied. 
Just  as  the  wave  of  Tantalus  flows  by. 
Cheating  the  lip  and  mocking  the  fond  eye  ! 

Yet  oft  array'd  in  all  their  genuine  truth. 
Rose  the  sweet  visions  of  his  early  youth  ;— 
More  bright — more  beautiful  those  visions  rise. 
As  cares  increase,  on  our  regretful  eyes ; 
And  when  the  storms  of  life  infuriate  roll. 
Unnerve  the  arm,  and  shake  th'  impassive  soul,  ' 


THE   GAMESTER.  93 

Then  Memory,  always  garrulous,  will  tell 
The  glowing  story  of  our  youth  too  well ; 
And  scenes  will  rise  upon  the  pensive  view, 
AVhich  Memory's  pencil  will  pourtray  too  true  ! 
Thus  when  Repentance  warm'd  his  aching  breast. 
He  turn'd  him,  tearful,  to  those  scenes  so  bless'd. 
And  fresh  they  came, — a  dear,  departed  throng. 
Of  joys  that  wrung  the  heart,  by  contrast  strong ; — 
Lost,  lov'd  delights  that  forc'd  the  frequent  sigh. 
And  chill'd  the  life-blood  while  they  charm'd  the  eye  ! 
Could  he  forget  when  first — O  thrilling  hour ! 
He  wooed  his  Julia  in  her  native  bower  ? 
Forget  ? — the  tender  walk — the  gate — the  cot — 
The  impassion'd  vow, — ah,  could  they  be  forgot? 
Sweet  noons — sweet  eves — when  all — below — above. 
Was  rapture — and  the  hours  were  wing'd  by  love  '• 
But  chief  one  dear  remembrance — one  more  bright 
Than  all,  though  cherish'd,  rush'd  upon  his  sight — 
The  mom  that,  blushing  in  her  virgin  charms. 
Gave  the  wrong'd  Julia  to  his  eager  arms  ! — 
Ah,  wrong'd, — for  though  Remorse  full  deeply  stung 
His  bosom,  to  the  damning  vice  he  clung ; 
And  she,  poor  victim,  had  not  power  to  stay 
The  wanderer  on  his  wild  and  desperate  way ; — 
While  round  her,  ever,  sternly — fiercely — sweep 
Views  of  the  future, — gloomy — dark — and  deep  ! 


94  death's  doings. 

Prophetic  glances  ! — he  has  left  again 
His  sacred  home,  to  seek  the  gamester's  den  ! — 
Ah,  aptly  term'd  a  hell,  for  oft  Despair 
And  Suicide,  twin  brothers,  revel  there  ! 
Awake,  infatuate  youth,  for  Death  is  nigh. 
Guides  the  dread  card,  and  shakes  the  fateful  die  ! 
Awake,  ere  yet  the  monster  lay  thee  low. 
All  that  thou  lovest  perish  in  that  blow ! 
The  strong  temptation — firmly — nobly — spurn  : 
Home — children — wife — may  yet  be  thine  ; — return 
To  virtue  and  be  happy;— but,  'tis  o'er — 
Stripp'd  of  his  all — he  may  return  no  more  ! 
Ruin'd  he  stands, — the  tempter  plies  his  part — 
As  the  head  reels,  and  sinks  the  bursting  heart  ! 
With  fell  Despair  his  glaring  eyeballs  roll. 
And  all  the  demon  fires  his  madden'd  soul ; 
The  bullet  speeds — upon  the  blood-stain'd  floor 
He  lies — and  play  has  one  pale  victim  more ! 

N.  T.  C. 


95 


GAMING. 


"  The  wife  of  a  gamester  came  with  Death  in  her  looks  to  seek  her 
husband  where  he  had  been  playing  for  two  days. — '  Leave  me,'  he 
said,  ♦!  shall  see  you  again,  perhaps.' — He  did  indeed  come  to  her; 
she  was  in  bed  with  his  last  child  at  her  breast, — '  Rise,'  said  he ;  *  the 
bed  on  which  you  lie  is  no  longer  yours.'  " 

M.  de  Saulx  on  the  Passion  of  Gaming. 


The  passion  for  gaming  is  as  universal  as  it  is 
pernicious  :  avarice  is  its  origin,  and  as  all  human 
hearts  are  more  or  less  avaricious,  a  propensity  to 
gambling  is  confined  to  no  peculiar  country.  The 
savage  and  the  sons  of  refinement,  the  scientific 
and  the  ignorant,  alike  admit  it  within  their  bo- 
soms. There  appears  to  be  a  delicious  allurement 
connected  with  the  anticipation  of  winning,  that 
counteracts  all  qualmy  doubts,  and  for  awhile  de- 
prives the  soul  of  its  genial  sympathies  by  enslaving 
it  to  oblivious  selfishness.  Some  writers  have 
endeavoured  to  confine  the  prevalence  of  gambling 
to  those  climes  where  the  frigid  sternness  of  the  at- 
mosphere occasions  a  mental  torpor,  which  is  to  be 
relieved  only  by  the  perturbations  of  the  heart. 
But  existing  facts  are  a  confutation  to  this  limi- 
tation ;  for  whether  we  cast  our  eye  over  the  fertile 


96  death's  doings. 

provinces  of  China,  or  turn  to  the  uncultivated 
islands  in  the  Pacific  Ocean,  we  find  man  yielding 
himself  up  to  the  same  destructive  passion,  and  en- 
tailing on  himself  consequences  equally  appalling.* 

A  more  heart-sickening  spectacle  cannot  well  be 

*  The  Siamese,  Sumatraiis,  and  Malayans  are  warmly  addicted  to 
gambling ;  and  the  former  will  sell  themselves  and  families  to  dis- 
charge their  gambling  debts.  The  Chinese  play  by  night  and  day  j 
and  when  ruinously  unsuccessful,  hang  themselves.  The  Japanese 
have  secured  themselves  from  yielding  to  their  innate  fondness  for 
gambling,  by  edicting  a  law,  **  That  whoever  ventures  his  money  at 
play,  shall  be  put  to  death."  Speaking  of  a  running-match  performed 
by  the  inhabitants  of  some  islands  in  the  Pacific  Ocean,  Cooke  remarks, 
"  We  saw  a  man  beating  his  breast,  and  tearing  his  hair  in  the  vio- 
lence of  rage,  for  having  lost  three  hatchets  at  one  of  these  mces,  and 
which  he  had  purchased  with  nearly  half  his  property."  The  ancients 
too,  were  gamblers.  The  Persians,  Grecians,  Romans,  Goths,  and 
Vandals,  may  be  adduced  as  examples.  To  the  wasteful  partiality  of 
the  Romans  for  gambling,  Juvenal  strongly  alludes  in  his  Sat.  I. : — 

"  Neque  enim  loculis  comitantibus  itur, 
Ad  casum  tabulae,  posita  sed  luditur  area" 

Among  the  modern  nations,  the  French  and  English  are  mournful 
instances  of  the  horrors  and  depravities  arising  from  gaming.  The 
annals  of  every  family  abound  with  their  sad  mementos.  Gamester 
and  cheater  were  synonymous  terms  in  the  days  of  Ben  Jonson  and 
Shakspeare: — ^late  facts  will  warrant  a  continuation  of  the  synonyms. 
Formerly,  gambling-houses  were  established  on  a  more  systematic  and 
official  plan  than  the  hells  of  the  present  times.  The  following  is  but 
a  partial  list  of  the  officers  then  in  attendance : — A  commissioner,  a 
director,  an  operator,  two  croiipers  (who  gathered  the  money  for  the 
bank),  two  puff's,  a  clerk,  a  sguib,  a  flasher,  adtmner,  a  captain,  a  JNew- 
gate  solicitor,  an  iisher,  with  linkboys,  coachmen,  &c,  &c. 


GAMING.  97 

imagined  than  a  room  replete  with  regular  gam- 
bling parties,  each  engaged  at  their  particular 
game : — take,  for  instance,  one  of  the  metropolitan 
hells.  An  iinvitiated  stranger,  on  his  first  entrance 
there,  may  learn  a  lesson  that  will  remain  indelible 
while  the  soul  is  capable  of  remembering  former 
sympathies.  The  mantling  glimmer  of  the  various 
lights,  the  hushful  silence  of  the  room, — rarely  dis 
turbed  but  by  the  passive  footfalls  of  waiters,  and 
dismal  sighs  escaping  from  sorrowed  hearts, — the 
mournful  associations  that  wait  on  every  unhallowed 
spot,  and  the  deepening  consciousness  that  misery  is 
busied  in  pensive  revels — all  commingling,  sink  on 
the  visitant's  soul  with  appalling  reality.  Though 
untainted  himself,  his  tenderest  pity  and  most  me- 
lancholy presentiments  must  be  awakened  for  the 
deluded  victims  of  a  selfish  passion.  While  stand- 
ing by  and  gazing  at  one  of  the  attentive  gamesters, 
what  room  for  moralizing  compassion  !  Observe  his 
glittering  eye,  that  rolls  so  wildly  under  its  fretful 
lid,  the  alternate  wrinkling  and  relaxing  of  his 
moistened  brow,  his  baking  lips,  and  their  frequent 
despairing  mutter  of  convulsive  anguish !  His  coun- 
tenance is  the  faithful  mirror  of  his  soul :  its  inter- 
nal passions  may  be  seen  working  there.  Now,  a 
trepid   gleam  of  joy  illumes   his  sunken   cheek, — 

H 


98  death's  doings. 

again  the  smile  dissolves,  and  the  gloomy  sallenness 
of  disappointment  sheds  there  its  monotony  of  shade. 
His  visage  may  be  compared  to  a  lake  on  a  breezy 
spring-day,  where  dizzy  sunbeams  mellow  for  a 
while  its  placid  surface,  to  be  succeeded  by  patter- 
ing rain-drops,  and  the  rippling  play  of  ruffled 
water.  Thus  pleasure  awhile  lights  up  the  game- 
ster's face,  the  features  glow  as  it  passes  over  them, 
and  then  relapse  into  the  emotions  of  deep-rooted 
melancholy!  Miserable  feelings  are  not  only  be- 
trayed in  the  countenance :  they  are  perceived  in 
each  movement  of  the  hand,  the  peevish  grasp  of 
the  dice-box,  or  the  dubious  selection  of  a  card,  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  tricks  and  disposition  of  the 
counters  :  the  whole  air  of  his  denotes  a  mental 
struggle.  Suppose  he  be  the  momentary  winner : — 
even  then  his  delight  is  but  a  mockery  of  felicity, 
while  the  losing  adversary  awes  down  its  demon- 
stration by  the  livid  contortions  of  his  visage,  and 
the  patient  sternness  of  avarice  writhing  for  speedy 
retaliation. 

He  who  endures  the  pangs  of  unmerited  woe,  may 
have  a  hapless  lot;  but  the  very  consciousness  of 
its  being  undeserved,  is  a  source  of  a  fitful  consola- 
tion. Like  the  day-god,  which,  amid  the  dark  thunder- 


GAMING.  99 

Clouds  that  overshade  his  empyreal  radiance,  will 
sometimes  gleam  through  the  cleft  gloom,  so  is  the 
heart  ofthe  guiltless  mourner  occasionally  shone  upon, 
by  that  sweet  beckoner,  Hope.  But  what  source  of 
consolation  has  the  gamester?  What  relieving  balm 
when  tortured  by  his  wretchedness  ?  His  soul  is 
then  a  volcano  of  rioting  passions  and  remorseless 
fires.  The  past  is  a  scene  that  yields  no  retro- 
spective calm ;  the  present  is  but  its  faithful  com- 
mentator. Suppose,  as  it  frequently  happens,  that 
during  his  gambling  course  he  has  risen  on  the  ruins 
of  a  fallen  victim  ;  and  the  wrecks  of  decayed  youth 
and  blasted  genius :  what  then  are  the  phantoms  of 
misery  that  hover  round  his  reflections?  To  have 
ruined  one's  self  is  a  doleful  consummation ;  but  add 
the  remembered  distraction  of  those  we  have  tra- 
duced, and  there  is  nothing  equivalent  to  the  recol- 
lection of  the  circumstances.  I  can  easily  imagine 
such  a  one  before  me — picture  him  attempting  to 
repose  within  the  curtained  loneliness  of  his  cham- 
ber. There  is  but  little  slumber  to  visit  his  eyelids ! 
He  is  haunted,  like  the  murderer,  by  the  shadowy 
resemblances  of  the  murdered.  The  blossoming 
hopes  he  blighted,  the  promise  of  years  that  he 
wrecked,  and  the  once  light  bosom  he  burdened  with 
affliction  now  felt  by  his  own, — all  throw  a  ghastly 

h2 


100  death's  doings. 

hue  on  his  imagination,  and  wake  up  the  phrensies  of 
his  brain.  Perhaps  he  was  the  elder,  and  once 
would  have  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  tempting  to 
destruction  the  counselled  associate  of  his  early 
days.  He  may  have  beheld  the  mother's  sainted 
fondness  for  her  son,  and  the  father's  united  cares 
for  the  welfare  of  their  offspring, — what  are  the  hor- 
rors of  his  recollections!  Who  was  it,  that  dead- 
ened by  despair  to  the  sympathies  of  honour  and 
friendship,  allured  him  from  his  principles,  and 
charmed  away  the  bashful  regret  on  his  first  appear- 
ance at  the  haunt  of  the  gamblers? — Himself: — and 
can  he  forget  the  dreariness  of  aspect,  the  wildness 
of  his  stare,  and  the  convulsions  of  his  person,  when 
he  last  rushed,  like  a  maniac,  from  his  presence, — 
stripped  of  honour,  virtue,  and  happiness  ?  Con- 
victing conscience  condemns  him  as  the  traducer  of 
the  inexperienced,  and  answerable  for  all  the  un- 
known woes  of  his  after-life.  Then,  as  for  himself, — 
what  is  he? — The  perpetrator  of  his  own  destruc- 
tion,— a  reduced,  degraded  wreck  of  guilt  and 
crime  that  seem  too  deep  for  penitence  to  absolve. 
It  is  probable,  too,  he  may  be  the  destroyer  of  do- 
mestic felicity,  that  depended  on  his  welfare  for  its 
continuance.  He  may  look  round  and  meet  the 
gaze  of  a  heart-broken  wife, — observe  the  clinging 


GAMING.  101 

children  whose  beggary  he  has  earned, — a  parent 
whose  hoary  fondness  claimed  his  most  pious  soli- 
citudes. Methinks  I  can  see  the  remorseful  victim 
with  the  cold  sweat  of  anguish  on  his  brow,  and  hear 
his  whispered  groans  as  he  turns  restlessly  on  his 
bed!— There  is  nothing  overdrawn  here:  many  are 
his  resemblances  in  the  metropolis  at  this  hour. 

And  what  can  the  successful  gamester  possess  to 
create  his  happiness  ?  If  happiness,  as  we  are  told, 
arise  from  the  mind,  the  gamester's  is  too  inhuman  to 
be  of  a  mental  nature.  Suppose  him  a  swindler, — 
will  not  the  dread  of  detection  harrow  his  bpsom  and 
corrode  his  soul  ?  Will  the  griping  clutch  of  hun- 
dreds from  a  defrauded  novice,  repay  him  for  his 
moments  of  uncommunicated  torture?  The  transi- 
tory flush  of  joy  for  fortunate  guile,  is  succeeded  by 
the  vengeance  of  conscience,  that  elicits  tortures 
even  amid  his  struggles  of  fancied  delight.  Then, 
what  dreamy  shadows  of  remorse  are  ever  floating 
before  his  imagination !  Miserable  indeed  is  peni- 
tence wrestling  with  fondness  for  crime.  If  virtue 
be  pursued,  the  haunts  of  guilt  must  be  deserted ; 
the  dice-box  and  long-accustomed  fellowships  are  to 
be  relinquished,  and  the  stinging  jeers  of  insulting 
folly  must  be  endured:  nor  is  this  all.  Tears  must 
be  the  precursors  of  resolutions,  and  his  plundered 


102  death's  doings. 

victims  must  be  repaid,  or  peace  resides  not  in  his 
breast.  But  where  are  the  thousands  which  ho- 
nour and  justice  are  to  restore? — lavished  in  dissipa- 
tion or  rendered  the  purveyors  of  criminal  delight. 
The  gambler  therefore  feels  it  is  easier  to  practise 
than  to  forsake  crime ;  and  thus  his  heart,  after 
hovering,  like  the  descending  eagle,  between  remorse 
and  love  for  vice,  returns  to  its  dreadful  propensi- 
ties. 

The  idea  of  one  human  being  extracting  enjoy- 
ment from  another's  misery,  is  dreadful  even  for 
consideration.  High  play  is  but  savageness  re- 
fined. The  barbarian  can  pierce  his  victims  with 
venomed  arrows,  or  deliver  them  to  the  devourment 
of  his  native  beasts  ;  but  in  this  case,  death  spee- 
dily closes  his  agonies.  He  that  deliberately  seats 
himself  down  with  the  ardent  hope  of  rising  on  his 
adversary's  downfall,  is,  in  principle,  far  more  cruel 
than  the  barbarian.  True,  he  plunges  no  weapon 
into  the  flesh ;  but  how  deep  and  cureless  are  the 
vulnerations  of  the  loser's  mind,  while  he  leaves  him 
enraptured  at  his  conquest  and  splendid  from  the 
completed  ruin  ?  It  may  be  objected,  that  both  are 
equally  in  fault ;  since  they  endeavour  for  mutual 
spoliation ; — and,  consequently,  cruelty  is  too  harsh 
an  application.     But  does  the  reciprocity  of  the  deed 


GAMING.  103 

remove  its  attendant  fierceness  ?  On  the  contrary, 
it  only  renders  it  more  lamentably  observable.  It 
should  be  remembered,  too,  that  the  finished  game- 
ster seldom  combats  with  his  peer,  but  seeks  a  no- 
vice for  his  plunder.  The  truth  is,  gambling  is 
an  inexcusable  disgrace  to  this  country ;  and  an 
attempt  to  connect  it  with  innocent  amusement  is 
only  a  wretched  perversion  of  the  term.  A  social 
game  of  cards  is,  perhaps,  not  culpable,  where,  we 
suppose,  pleasure  will  not  degenerate  into  excess, 
or  benevolence  into  selfishness.  But  the  routine  of 
the  regular  gambler,  one  who  makes  it  his  profes- 
sion, and  braves  all  consequences,  deserves  no  epi- 
thet but  greedy  and  merciless.  There  seems  to  be 
a  living  paradox  in  the  present  age :  charity  is  the 
colloquial  subject  of  the  drawing-room,  sympathy 
and  tenderest  sentiments  drop  glowing  from  ready 
tongues,  and  yet  dinner-parties  retire  from  the 
feast  for  reciprocal  endeavours  of  plunder!  The 
host  will  frequently  invite  his  guest,  and  repay  the 
hospitality  of  the  table  by  sending  him  purseless  to 
his  abode !  It  is  a  notorious  and  sickening  fact, 
that  many  of  the  metropolitan  resorts  of  amusement 
often  contain  the  daughters  and  mother  quadrilling 
in  the  ball-room,  while  the  father  is  ruining  himself 
and  their  fortunes  at  the  card-table.  This  speaks 
volumes   on   the'    moral    degeneracy  of  the    times. 


104  death's  doings. 

Even  women  now, — they,  whose  bosoms  should  be 
the  stainless  sanctuaries  of  none  but  soothing  pas- 
sions, are  becoming  gamblers.     What  a  repulsive 
spectacle,  to  observe  a  female  face  expressing  all  the 
feelings  of  a  thorough  blackleg !  to  observe  eyes  that 
were  made  for    beaming  fondness,  darting  glances 
of   inward   spleen    and    resentment ; — lips    whence 
delicate  tones  should  only  be  breathed,  curled  up 
in  anger  and  masculine  sternness  !     Once  more,  and 
we  will  leave  this  topic.     May  we  not  expect  that 
future  years  will  increase  the  prevalence  of  feminine 
gamesters  ?     Women,  whose  weight  of  years  should 
be   supported   by  matronly  dignity  and  reverential 
aspect,  are  now  employed  from  midnight  to  morn  at 
the  gambling-table,  and  betray  all  its  concomitant 
vices  in    the   presence  of  their    youthful  offspring. 
What  must  be  the  state  of  society  when  fashionable 
mothers  thus   wantonly  forget  their  character,   and 
permit  their  children  to  witness  their  depravity— in 
after-times  to  represent  it ! 

Theodore  was  the  son  of  a  country  gentleman, 
equally  blessed  in  the  affection  of  father  and  mo- 
ther :  the  days  of  his  childhood  were  attended  with 
those  cares  and  prudent  indulgences  so  necessary  to 
mould  the  future  man  for  active  life  and  virtuous 
consistency.     Early  initiated  into  the  duties  of  self- 


GAMING.  105 

cultivation,  and  taught  properly  to  estimate  the  good 
qualities  of  the  heart,  at  nineteen  he  was  such  a  son 
that  a  father  might  be  proud  to  recognise.  Each  va- 
cation found  his  studies  greatly  advanced,  and  his 
capacity  enlarged  for  the  enjoyments  of  taste  and 
intellectual  pursuits.  His  versed  acquaintance  with 
the  bards  of  Greece  and  Rome,  together  with  the  de- 
licious ones  of  his  own  country,  had  engendered  a 
love  for  the  muse ;  which,  though  unexpressed  in 
words,  was  embalmed  in  the  heart.  He  examined 
Nature  with  the  eye  of  a  poet,  and  drew  an  inde- 
scribable inspiration  from  her  varied  scenery.  The 
grouping  clouds  of  an  evening  sky  folding  round  the 
sun,  as  if  in  homage  for  the  light  of  day,  were  to 
him  not  merely  beautiful — something  beyond  this — 
a  spectacle  that  awoke  visions  which  were  shadowed 
forth  in  fancy  and  pensive  ecstasies.  The  stars  of 
night,— the  verdant  spread  of  the  distant  meadow, 
— the  peering  mountain  and  the  sleeping  vale, 
— all  were  looked  on  by  him  with  a  mental  de- 
light. Those  who,  at  this  period  of  his  life,  be- 
held him  accomplished,  gentle,  and  amiable — one 
who  would  have  trembled  at  wilful  vice — could 
scarcely  have  imagined  that  he  would  ever  be  the 
victim  of  vicious  folly;  but  such  the  conclusion  of 
this  brief  sketch  will  show  him.  These  traits  of 
Theodore's    youthful   character  are   mentioned,    in 


106  death's  doings. 

order  to  illustrate  the  force  of  corruption,  even  on  a 
refined  soul  and  cultivated  imagination. 

At  the  decease  of  his  father,  Theodore  arrived  in 
the  metropolis,  to  pursue  the  usual  course  of  his 
chosen  profession.  Dr.  Johnson  has  remarked,  *'  to 
a  man  whose  pleasure  is  intellectual,  London  is  the 
place."  Theodore  felt  this ;  and  had  he  been  blessed 
with  as  much  firmness  as  refinement  of  soul,  he 
would  have  realized  all  his  fancy  had  pictured.  He 
entered  on  the  busy  arena  of  the  metropolis  with 
sanguine  hopes,  and  resolutions  which,  he  thought, 
would  never  be  broken.  His  mother,  aware  of  the 
many  perilous  temptations  in  London,  fondly  and 
earnestly  alluded  to  them  on  their  farewell  evening. 
She  did  not  expect  he  would  be  imprudent,  but  she 
had  known  others,  similarly  situated,  to  fall ;  and, 
therefore,  her  parting  tear  was  not  an  omen  of  her 
son's  misfortune,  but  the  fond  betrayer  of  internal 
anxiousness  for  his  welfare.  A  tear  from  his  mo- 
ther's eye  was  ever  followed  by  another  from  Theo- 
dore's with  instantaneous  sympathy,  and,  as  he 
sealed  his  last  kiss  on  her  lips,  the  language  of  his 
heart  was, — "  Can  I  ever  deceive,  or  pain  such  a  mo- 
ther— never !" 

Theodore  had  not  resided  long  in  London,  ere  his 


GAMING.  107 

father's  grave  was  opened  to  receive  his  mother. 
But  alas  !  a  few  years  had  deteriorated  his  princi- 
ples and  debased  his  heart.  Tlie  death  of  a  mother 
for  awhile  carried  him  back  to  the  hours  of  child- 
hood,— he  thought  of  what  he  was,  and  what  he  had 
been.  It  was  true  his  letters  had  deceived  her,  and 
that  she  left  the  world  with  the  conviction  of  his  fu- 
ture prosperity ;  still  conscience  was  not  yet  suffi- 
ciently stifled  not  to  upbraid  him.  But  he  was 
leagued  too  closely  with  his  ruin  to  escape  it !  It 
would  be  tedious  to  trace  his  career,  from  the  mo- 
ment of  his  arrival  in  London,  to  the  morning  on 
which  he  was  informed  of  his  mother's  death.  It 
will  be  enough  to  account  for  the  conclusion,  to 
state  that  his  profession  had  introduced  him  to  the 
acquaintance  of  some  dissipated  young  men ;  his 
natural  goodness  of  heart  for  awhile  foiled  each 
temptation;  but  as  long  as  this  was  the  case,  he  was 
too  companionless  to  be  happy.  He  did  not  con- 
tinue his  resistance ;  one  visit  to  a  gambling-house 
was  speedily  followed  by  others.  At  first,  fortune 
attended  him,  and  he  returned  for  several  evenings 
with  increased  property.  But  it  was  this  very  luck 
that  occasioned  his  ruin  :  he  now  hazarded  to  play 
high,  and  at  one  game  lost  all  his  former  gains.  By 
various  means  he  had  contrived  to  dispose  of  his 
property   to   supply   his   exigencies,   and  was   now 


108  death's  doings. 

about  to  risk  his  last  sum.  Many  were  the  palpi- 
tations of  his  heart  throughout  the  day.  Sometimes 
he  determined  to  retire  for  ever  from  the  scene  of  his 
ruin  ;— but  then  the  remembrance  of  his  losses,  and 
the  hope  that  this  last  risk  would  recover  them,  in- 
terrupted the  half-formed  resolution,  and  allured  him 
to  the  trial.  The  hour  came  at  last,  and  with  a 
thrilling  bosom  did  Theodore  take  his  accustomed 
seat  at  the  gambling-table.  He  knew  that  his  all 
was  risked,  and  this  fatal  truth  chilled  every  limb, 
and  woke  up  the  cautiousness  of  terror  and  hope. 
If  he  rose  a  winner,  he  should  then  be  free  to  re- 
nounce his  present  mode  of  life,  and  return  to  that 
of  peace  and  virtue ;  if  not,  there  was  nothing  but 
despair  to  refer  to,  and  its  dictates  to  follow  !  He 
sat  tremblingly  opposite  his  adversary,  and  com- 
menced the  game.  The  first  two  throws  of  the  dice 
were  equal  on  both  sides, — it  now  depended  on  the 
last  one  for  the  termination  of  the  contest.  Theo- 
dore threw — the  number  was  low,  though  not  so  low 
but  his  adversary's  might  be  more  so.  He  watched 
with  breathless  anxiousness  the  raising  of  his  arm, 
— heard  the  dice  rattle, — too  plainly  saw  the  icy 
sternness  of  his  adversary's  features, — murmured  a 
tone  of  anguish, the  dice  were  thrown  by  Death ! 

R.  M. 


TSE    SEIRE^TADE. 


109 


THE  SERENADE. 


'Tis  midnight,  and  there  is  a  world  of  stars 

Hanging  in  the  blue  heaven,  bright  and  clear. 

And  shining,  as  if  they  were  only  made 

To  sparkle  in  the  mirror  of  the  lake. 

And  light  up  flower-gardens  and  green  groves. 

By  yonder  lattice,  where  the  thick  vine-leaves 

Are  canopy  and  curtain,  set  with  gems 

Eich  in  the  autumn's  gift  of  ruby  grapes, 

A  maiden  leans  : — it  is  a  lovely  night. 

But,  lovely  as  it  is,  the  hour  is  late 

For  beauty's  vigil,  and  to  that  pale  cheek 

Sleep  might  give  back  the  roses  watching  steals. 

Slumber,  and  happy  slumber,  such  as  waits 

On  youth,  and  hope,  and  innocence,  was  made 

To  close  those  soft  blue  eyes.     What  can  they  know 

Of  this  world's  sorrow,  strife,  and  anxiousness? 

What  can  Wealth  be  to  the  young  mind  that  has 

A  mine  of  treasure  in  its  own  fresh  feelings  ? 

And  Fame,  oh  woman !  has  no  part  in  it ;  and  Hate, 

Those  sweet  lips  cannot  know  it ;  and  Remorse, 

That  waits  on  guilt, — and  Guilt  has  set  no  sign 


110  death's  doings. 

On  that  pure  brow  :  'tis  none  of  these  that  keep 
Her  head  from  its  down  pillow,  but  there  is 
A  visitant  in  that  pale  maiden's  breast 
Restless  as  Avarice,  anxious  as  Fame, — 
Cruel  as  Hate,  and  pining  as  Remorse, — 
Secret  as  Guilt ;  a  passion  and  a  power 
That  has  from  every  sorrow  taken  a  sting, — 
A  flower  from  every  pleasure,  and  distilled 
An  essence  where  is  blent  delight  and  pain; 
And  deep  has  she  drained  the  bewildering  cup. 
For  Isadore  watches  and  wakes  with  Love. 

Hence  is  it  that  of  the  fair  scene  below 

She  sees  one  only  spot ;  in  vain  the  lake 

Spreads  like  a  liquid  sky,  o'er  which  the  swans 

Wander,  fleece-clouds  around  the  one  small  isle. 

Where  lilies  glance  like  a  white  marble  floor. 

In  the  tent  made  by  pink  acacia  boughs  ; 

In  vain  the  garden  spreads,  with  its  gay  banks 

Of  flowers,  o'er  which  the  summer  has  just  pass'd. 

The  bride-like  rose, — the  rich  anemone, — 

The  treasurer  of  June's  gold  ;  the  hyacinth, 

A  turret  of  sweet  colours ;  and,  o'er  all. 

The  silver  fountains  playing  : — but  in  vain  ! 

Isadorc's  eye  rests  on  that  cypress  grove : 

A  bright  warm  crimson  is  upon  her  cheek, 

And  her  red  lip  is  opened  as  to  catch 


THE  SERENADE.  Ill 

The  air  that  brought  the  sound  upon  the  gale. 
There  is  a  sweet  low  tone  of  voice  and  lute. 
And,  oh!  Love's  eyes  are  lightening, — she  has  caught 
A  shadow,  and  the  wave  of  a  white  plume 
Amid  those  trees,  and,  with  her  hair  flung  back. 
She  listens  to  the  song  : — 

Lady  sweet,  this  is  the  hour 

Time's  loveliest  to  me ; 
For  now  my  lute  may  breathe  of  love. 

And  it  may  breathe  to  thee. 

All  day  I  sought  some  trace  of  thine. 

But  never  likeness  found  ; 
But  still  to  be  where  thou  hast  been 

Is  treading  fairy  ground. 

I  watched  the  blushing  evening  fling 

Her  crimson  o'er  the  skies, — 
I  saw  it  gradual  fade,  and  saw. 

At  length,  the  young  moon  rise. 

And  very  long  it  seemed  to  me 

Before  her  zenith  hour. 
When  sleep  and  shade  conspire  to  hide 

My  passage  to  thy  bower. 


112  death's  doings. 

I  will  not  say — wake  not,  dear  love, — 

I  know  thou  wilt  not  sleep  ; 
Wilt  thou  not  from  thy  casement  lean. 

And  one  Ipne  vigil  keep  ? 

Ah  !  only  thus  to  see  thee,  love. 

And  watch  thy  bright  hair  play 
Like  gold  around  thine  ivory  arm. 

Is  worth  a  world  of  day. 

Gradual  he  had  drawn  nearer  and  more  near. 
And  now  he  stood  so  that  his  graceful  shape 
Was  visible,  and  his  flashing  eyes  were  raised 
With  all  the  eloquence  of  love  to  her's  : 
She  took  an  azure  flower  from  her  hair. 
And  flung  it  to  him. — Flowers  are  funeral  gifts, — 
And,  ere  his  hand  could  place  upon  his  heart 
The  fragile  leaves,  another  hand  was  there — 
The  hand  of  Death. 

Alas  for  her  proud  kinsmen  \ 
'Tis  their  work !  the  gallant  and  the  young    - 
Lies  with  the  dagger  in  his  faithful  breast, — 
The  destiny  of  love. 

L.  E.  L. 


TME    TOILET, 


113 


DEATH  AT  THE  TOILET. 


{By  the  Author  of"  The  Lollards,"  "  Witchjinder ,"  Sfc.  Sfc.) 


It  seems  that  every  bard,  or  clown,  or  lord, 
Finds  Death  a  striking  subject  to  talk  o'er. 

He  who  counts  syllables,  in  each  long  word. 
With  rhyme,  his  hapless  relatives  to  bore. 

And  he  who  strikes  the  highest-bounding  chord. 
Who  with  immortal  eloquence  can  soar ; 

Yet  nothing  make  of  Death,  with  all  this  fuss. 

But,  that  he  nothing  means  to  make  of  us. 

And  some  appear  intolerably  grieved. 
While  dolefully  lamenting  earthly  woes. 

To  think  that  they  must  one  day  be  relieved  : 
And  gain  through  him,  a  season  of  repose. 

But  I,  thank  Heaven  !  have  never  yet  perceived 
That  I  am  likely  to  be  one  of  those : 

For,  gratefully  admiring  Nature's  plan. 

Death  seems  to  me  the  comforter  of  man. 

I 


114  death's  doings. 

From  this  folks  may  presume  that  I  am  heir 

To  some  old  gentleman  of  property. 
Or  ancient  dame,  who  to  assuage  my  care 

Has  been  sufficiently  polite  to  die  ; 
Or  else  a  widower,  whose  black  despair 

Has  after  six  long  mourning  weeks  gone  by. 
But  I,  though  Death  is  certainly  my  pet, 
Have  to  acknowledge  no  such  favours  yet. 

I  like  him  for  the  lesson  he  gives  pride. 
And  those  we  "  groundlings"  call  of  "  high  degree." 

The  heartless  rich,  by  him  laid  side  by  side. 
Are  fairly  levelled  with  poor  rogues  like  me. 

Thus  feeling,  sometimes  I  have  almost  cried. 
Death's  circumstances  so  reduced  to  see; 

For  vaccination — stomach-pumps — and  peace, 

I  thought  would  make  mortality  decrease. 

"  Great  king  of  terrors  !   I  commiserate 
Thy  lot  severe,  for  deeply  thou  must  feel. 

Through  peace,  the  long  postponement  of  the  fate 
Of  thousands,  whom  the  grave  would  else  conceal. 

No  longer  used  for  stocking  thy  estate 

Are  powder,  conflagration,  lead,  and  steel ; 

Whilst  undertakers  in  the  general  joy 

Turn  suicides,  their  workmen  to  employ  !" 


DEATH  AT  THE  TOILET.  115 

Thus  I  exclaimed,  when  lo !  before  me  stood 
Grim  Death  himself.     I  must  confess  this  hurt 

My  feelings  rather,  but  his  civil  mood 
Restored  composure,  nay,  I  soon  grew  pert. 

Though  to  my  blushing  face,  up  rushed  the  blood. 
At  being  thus  with  one  who  wore  no  shirt ; 

With  one  indeed,  it  may  be  said,  who  owns 

Not  even  a  skin  to  hide  his  naked  bones. 

Yet  skeletons  I  like  to  view,  because 

No  veil  there  screens  a  mean  perfidious  heart ; 
No  vertebrae  inclines,  to  feign  applause 

Where  scorn  is  felt,  but  finished  life's  brief  part 
The  limbs  with  seeming  dignity  can  pause. 

Nor  shake  with  terror  nor  with  fury  start ; 
And  Death  as  seen  by  me,  was  I  must  own 

A  very  gentlemanly  skeleton. 

We  spoke  of  various  matters — of  Life's  ills — 
Of  sportive  subjects  now,  and  now  of  grave  ; 

I,  (thinking  of  my  aunt's  and  grannam's  wills) 
Lamented  cooking  Kitchener  should  save. 

Or  Abernethy  with  his  d — ns  and  pills. 

So  many,  whom  of  right  Death  ought  to  have; 

And  still,  to  give  discourse  a  friendly  turn. 

On  his  account  expressed  sincere  concern. 

i2 


116  death's  doings. 

"  Your  love  I  thank,"  said  he,  and  grinn'd  a  smile ; 

"  I  will  explain,  but  must  be  brief  and  free, 
For  I  to-night  shall  journey  many  a  mile. 

And  you  would  hardly  wish  to  go  with  me. 
Rightly  you  have  imagined  that  my  toil 

Makes  life  a  little  like  what  it  should  be. 
Few,  very  few,  would  care  on  earth  to  stay. 
Were  I  for  one  whole  century  away. 

'*  For  how  terrific  were  the  tyrant's  rod, 

Had  he  no  dread  that  Death  might  be  at  hand  ! 

And  how  relentlessly  would  Avarice  plod. 
How  domineering  would  be  all  the  grand, 

If  me  they  could  forget,  as  they  do  God, 
And  hope  to  live  for  ever  in  the  land  ! 

I  make  proud  affluence  the  poor  befriend. 

Or  bring  its  sordid  projects  to  an  end. 

"  This,  my  vocation,  sternly  I  pursue. 
In  peace  or  war,  submission  I  compel. 

The  latter,  'twill  sound  wonderful  to  you. 
My  lists,  perceptibly,  could  never  swell ; 

Nay,  joined  with  steam,  balloons,  safe  coaches  too. 
Ne'er  furnished  out  a  half  per-centage  knell. 

My  blows  are  most  repeated,  are  most  sure — 

Where  wealth  and  comfort  whisper  '  all's  secure.' 


DEATH  AT  THE  TOILET.  117 

"  I  choose  not  for  my  arms,  the  beggar's  meals. 
His  tatters,  or  his  lodging  on  the  ground ; 

No ;  but  magnificence  my  arrow  feels, 

Where  pomp  presides  and  luxuries  abound : 

In  dainty  viands,  to  life's  source  it  steals  ; 

And  costly  wines,  my  instruments  are  found. 

These — these  to  Death  far  richer  harvest  yield. 

Than  all  the  slaughter  of  the  battle-field. 

"  More  would  you  learn,  to  Beauty's  toilet  go 
And  see  my  weapons,  in  the  fair  array 

"Which  all  around  her  careful  hand  may  throw. 
To  decorate  her  for  the  festive  day. 

There,  in  her  gauzes,  nets,  and  muslins  know. 
My  formidable  host  in  ambush  stay. 

But  hast  thou  seen  a  nymph,  both  young,  and  fair. 

For  conquest,  and  for  revelry  prepare  V 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  and  transport  at  the  thought 
Prompted  unwonted  energy  of  speech, 

"  But  yesterday,  a  blissful  glimpse  I  caught 
Of  that  which  mortal  excellence  may  reach ; 

And  this  idea  to  my  mind  it  brought. 
However  eloquently  churchmen  preach, 

Though  with  it  strange  extravagance  breaks  loose, 

Yet  love's  idolatry  claims  some  excuse. 


118  death's  doings. 

"  I  gaz'd  on  all  that's  fragrant,  gay,  and  bright. 
In  Heaven  above,  on  earth,  or  in  the  sea. 

Celestial  blue  in  Chloe's  orbs  of  sight. 
And  starry  lustre  there  enchanted  me. 

The  blushing  rose,  and  lily,  now  delight 
With  pearl  and  coral,  in  soft  unity. 

It  was  a  picture,  radiant ! — glorious  ! — rare  ! 

Divine  epitome  of  all  that's  fair ! 

**  Superb  embellisher  of  human  life ! 

How  dear  the  joy  thy  influence  can  impart ! 
Blest  recompense  for  scenes  of  care  and  strife  ! 

Loved  tyrant  of  the  subjugated  heart ! 
Beauty  !  resistless  still  in  maid  or  wife ! 

Through  being's  course — but  here  you  almost  start 
Afraid  that  I  shall  covet  when  I  die, 
O  Mahomet !  thy  sweetly  peopled  sky  ! 

'*  Source  of  our  bliss !  but  fountain  of  our  sighs ! 

The  poor  for  beauty  pant — the  rich  adore  ; 
The  madman's  vows,  the  homage  of  the  wise. 

In  every  age  are  thine,  on  every  shore. 
Thy  smile  inspires  our  noblest  energies. 

The  warrior's  prowess,  and  the  poet's  lore  ; 
And  our  sublimest  deeds  confess  thy  sway. 
As  flowers  and  fruits  date  from  the  sun  of  May  !" 


DEATH  A  r  THE  TOILET.  119 

**  But  saw'st  thou,"  Death  inquired,  "  although  so  fair 
And  almost  more  than  mortal  to  behold, 

How  Chloe,  dressing,  to  her  aid  called  there 
Wreaths,  toys,  and  gewgaws,  more  than  can  be  told  ?" 

*'  I  did,  and  marvelled  at  the  fruitless  care. 
Thus  whitening  snow,  or  gilding  purest  gold. 

And  still,  when  all  as  I  thought  had  been  tried. 

Her  milliner,  new  finery  supplied." 

"  And  while  you  leisurely  could  this  descry," 

Said  Death,  "  who  waited  on  her  did  you  ask  ? 
Know  the  attendant  you  beheld — was  I  ! 

'Twas  I  who  wore  the  officious  servant's  mask  ! 
The  fair  was  destined  in  life's  bloom  to  die ; 

To  hand  the  fatal  trappings  was  my  task : 
Wholly  superfluous  I  deemed  open  force. 

And  let  the  thoughtless  beauty  take  her  course. 

"  'Tis  thus  that  Death  accomplishes  his  aim  : 
Most  human  beings  sigh  for  what  destroys  ; 

Mirth,  Vanity,  and  Pleasure,  play  my  game. 
And  crush  life's  hopes  beneath  deluding  joys. 

More  perish  from  caprice,  and  Fashion's  whim. 
Than  by  the  cannon,  battle's  rage  employs — 

But  I  must  hence, — another  glass  is  out, 

And  I  am  going  to  my  lady's  rout/' 


120 


LUCY;    OR,  THE  MASKED  BALL, 

A   TALE. 


Who,  wandering  at  early  hour. 

While  devvdrops  hang  on  every  flower. 

And  twinkle,  in  the  slanting  rays. 

Like  stars  with  irridescent  blaze ; 

While  birds,  from  copse  and  limber  spray. 

Welcome  with  song  the  infant  day : — 

Who,  wandering  then,  can  coldly  view 

The  smiling  Daisy  bathed  in  dew ; 

The  Violet,  from  her  leafy  bed. 

The  sweetest  colours  round  her  spread ; 

And  blushing,  as  her  buds  disclose 

Her  all-unrivalled  charms,  the  Rose, 

Lovely  with  Nature's  simple  grace ! 

And  ever  wish  to  change  their  place  ? 

The  Daisy  in  the  rich  parterre 

Would,  cheerless,  smile  unnoticed  ;  there. 

Vainly,  the  Violet  dispense. 

Her  perfume  on  the  pamper'd  sense, 

Which  scarce  can  rouse  from  apathy 

The  scents  of  Ind  and  Araby  ; 


LUCY  ;    OR,   THE  MASKED  BALL.    ,  121 

And,  but  contemned  her  native  grace. 
Droop  the  wild  Rose  in  such  a  place. 

Like  these  young  Lucy  blossomed,  ere 
Her  bosom  knew  the  pangs  of  care : 
A  floweret  meet  for  peaceful  vale. 
Green  glen,  or  still  sequestered  dale  ; 
A  village  maid,  in  simple  dress. 
All  meek  retiring  loveliness  : 
Her  joys  so  pure  and  innocent. 
She  scarcely  knew  that  Discontent, 
Corroding  Envy,  Hate,  and  Care, 
Inhabitants  terrestrial  were  : 
For,  in  the  hamlet  where  she  dwelt. 
Their  pestilence  had  not  been  felt ; — 
Her  world,  within  whose  narrow  bound 
Those  gentle  sympathies  were  found. 
Which  harmonize  frail  human  kind 
As  earth  and  heaven  were  conjoin'd. 

But,  where  from  earth  is  Grief  exil'd  ? 
Young  Lucy  was  affliction's  child  ! 
Her  sire  had  for  his  country  bled 
And  died,  on  Honour's  gory  bed ; 
And,  far  from  towns,  his  widow  sped  ; 
Hoping,  in  this  sweet  solitude. 
She  might  the  scorn  of  Pride  elude  ; 


122        .  death's  doings. 

For  well  she  knew,  that  the  world's  eye 
Falls  cold  upon  adversity. 

In  a  green  glen,  embowered' in  trees. 

Yet  open  to  the  western  breeze. 

Lay  the  small  village,  where  she  chose 

To  seek  for  shelter  and  repose. 

Few  were  its  habitants,  and  these 

Nature's  rude  sons ;  yet,  if  they  knew 

But  little,  vice  was  absent  too. 

The  only  solace  that  beguiled 

Her  melancholy,  was  her  child. 

Whose  smile  of  love  and  fond  caress 

Oft  cheer'd  her  spirit's  loneliness  ; 

And  as  she  hung  with  pure  delight 

Upon  her  neck,  in  colours  bright, 

Hope  would  the  future  paint,  and  through 

Her  grief-cloud  ope  a  spot  of  blue  ; 

A  fitful  gleam,  which  passed ;  and,  then. 

Gloom  settled  over  all  again. 

Time  wings  his  flight,  the  rosebud  blows  ; 

The  child  to  lovely  woman  grows ; 

The  beauty  of  the  infant  face 

Is  heightened  by  maiden  grace  ; 

Lucy  is  artless  Lucy  still. 

But,  in  her  swelling  bosom,  thrill 


LUCY  ;    OR,    THE  MASKED  BALL.  123 

Feelings  and  thoughts,  which  all  declare 

The  infant  is  no  longer  there. 

The  archness  of  her  blooming  face 

To  modesty  hath  yielded  place ; 

Her  cheek  glows  with  a  fainter  red. 

Save  when  quick  kindling  blushes  spread 

Their  damask  flush,  and  tint  the  snows 

Of  her  bosom's  lilies  with  the  rose  : 

Her  eye,  a  sparkling  diamond  set 

Within  the  lustre-softening  jet 

Of  the  fringed  lid,  no  more  repays 

Responsive  every  passing  gaze  ; 

The  parted  lip,  the  dimple's  wile. 

Only  betray  the  chastened  smile  ; 

While,  beaming  with  expression  sweet. 

For  angel  woman  truly  meet. 

Each  feature  bears  the  stamp  of  mind. 

By  culture  moulded  and  refined. 

For  her  sole  parent  strove  to  store 

Her  opening  mind  with  useful  lore  ; 

Spread  Nature's  volume  to  her  eye. 

Pure  fount  of  true  philosophy. 

Source  whence  the  streams  of  knowledge  flow. 

And  of  the  flowers  that  round  them  blow. 

And,  save  her  sacrifice  to  heaven. 

To  Lucy  all  her  hours  were  given ; 


124  death's  doings. 

For  Lucy  all  her  bosom's  care. 

Her  morning  hymn,  her  evening  prayer. 

Oft  has  the  mother's  eye  survey'd 

The  change  Time  in  her  child  had  made. 

And  onward  glanced,  although  a  tear 

Would  now,  and  now  a  smile  appear. 

As  Fear  and  Hope,  alternate,  threw 

Their  clouds  and  sunshine  on  the  view. 

Yet,  in  the  future,  would  she  see 

The  promise  of  felicity. 

As  when  autumnal  morning  breaks. 

And  earth  from  her  soft  slumber  wakes. 

While  the  first  rays  scarce  pierce  the  clouds 

That  wrap  the  vale  in  hazy  shrouds. 

Above  the  sea  of  mist,  is  seen 

Some  tufted  knoll,  like  islet  green. 

Or  summit  of  gigantic  oak. 

Or  hidden  cot's  blue  rising  smoke  ; 

Till,  as  if  dream  of  phantasy. 

The  orb  of  day,  uprising  high. 

Flings  back  the  vapoury  veil,  and  lo ! 

The  landscape  glitters  bright  below. 

But,  ah  !  ere  noontide  hour,  is  gone 

The  splendour  which  we  gazed  upon  ! 


LUCY;  OR,  THE  MASKED  BALL.       125 

And  who  hath  found,  who  shall  e'er  find 

Fortune  immutable  and  kind  ? 

The  purest  flake  of  fallen  snow 

Is  crushed  the  peasant's  foot  below  ; 

The  brightest  stream  of  mountain  spring 

Runs  troubled  in  its  wandering  ; 

And  Lucy's  life,  through  sun  and  shower. 

Was  chequered  to  its  closing  hour. 

And,  now,  across  the  stubbled  field 
The  fowler  stalked,  and,  harshly,  peal'd 
The  gun's  hoarse  note.     The  timid  hare 
Cowers  closer  in  her  sheltering  lair  ; 
And,  as  her  brood  she  gathers  round. 
Scared  by  the  death-denouncing  sound. 
Whose  boomings,  borne  upon  the  gale. 
Startle  the  silence  of  the  vale. 
The  partridge  feels  her  little  breast 
With  all  a  mother's  cares  opprest. 
'Twas  in  that  season — the  last  beam 
Of  Even  shed  a  golden  gleam. 
When  Lucy  stood  beside  the  rill 
Which  turned  the  hamlet's  little  mill. 
And,  chaffering  its  pebbles  white. 
Glittered  beneath  the  parting  light ; 


126  death's  doings. 

Half  lost  in  thought,  half  listening 

To  its  sweet  chidings,  when  the  spring 

Of  a  dog  startled  her : — amazed — 

She  turned — a  youth  upon  her  gazed. 

Whose  garb  and  bearing,  form  and  face 

Bespoke  him  of  a  gentle  race. 

As  the  doe  starts,  when  the  loud  horn 

Bursts  on  her  ear  at  early  morn, 

And  forward  springs  with  winged  bound. 

Then  stops  and  listens,  glancing  round 

Quick  panting,  yet  delays  to  fly  ; 

So  Lucy  meets  the  stranger's  eye. 

All  perturbation  :  and,  as  turn 

Homeward  her  trembling  feet,  and  burn 

Her  cheeks  with  blushes,  as  impell'd 

By  some  strong  power,  while  onward  held 

Her  trembling  limbs,  each  step  she  flies. 

Turn  backward  her  inquiring  eyes  ; 

While  the  fond  youth,  her  cause  of  care. 

Stands  moveless  as  he  marble  were. 

"  Such  matchless  beauty!  such  a  mien  ! 

Is  she  a  mortal  I  have  seen  ? 

Do  dreams  on  waking  sense  obtrude  ? 

Or,  in  this  earthly  solitude. 

Exiled  awhile  from  heaven's  bourne. 

Is  sent  an  angel  to  sojourn  ?" 


lucy;  or,  the  masked  ball.     127 

So  mused  the  youth. — O'er  Lucy  stole 

A  pensive  listlessness  of  soul : 

In  sleep,  her  dreams, — awake,  her  thought 

The  rill  before  her  ever  brought ; 

And,  when  eve  came,  she  wist  not  why. 

Turned  there  her  steps  unconsciously. 

Need  we  describe  the  lover's  eyes 

Encountering  in  Love's  emprise  ? 

How  oft  they  met,  and  gazed,  and  strove 

To  give  an  utterance  to  love  ; 

Yet,  silent  gaz'd,  as  if  afraid 

The  air  would  whisper  what  they  said  ? 

For  thus,  since  love  on  earth  has  dwelt. 

Have  looked  his  votaries  and  felt. 

At  length,  a  tongue  each  bosom  found. 

And  vows  were  pledged,  and  hearts  were  bound ; 

And  holy  rites  and  blessings  o'er, 

Lucy  and  Edmund  part  no  more. 

The  moon  hung  in  the  vault  of  sky, 
A  thousand  bright  stars  twinkling  nigh : 
Dancing  beneath  her  silver  sheen 
The  ripples  of  the  rill  were  seen  ; 
But,  as  if  soothed  their  chaflferings. 
They  babbled  in  low  murmurings. 
The  soft  light  spread  a  soothing  gleam 
On  bank  and  brae,  on  cot  and  stream  ; 


128  death's  doings. 

And,  straggling  through  the  leafy  grove. 
Chequered  the  path  of  whispering  love : 
While  the  breeze  scarcely  breathed  a  sigh 
As  it  kissed  the  flowers  in  passing  by. 
Stealing  the  odours  of  their  breath 
For  incense  to  the  sleeping  earth  : 
For  Nature  lay  in  balmy  rest 
Soft  as  babe's  on  a  mother's  breast ; 
And  all  on  earth,  in  air,  in  sky. 
Seemed  tuned  to  perfect  harmony. 

Such  was  the  night  when  Lucy  took 

A  last  and  melancholy  look 

Of  her  loved  vale.     Can  words  impart 

The  conflict  of  the  bursting  heart. 

When  to  the  spot  our  childhood  knew 

And  loved,  we  bid  a  first  adieu  ? 

Where  path,  and  bank,  and  stile,  and  tree 

Have  witnessed  our  felicity. 

And  seem  as  friends,  who  still  should  share 

Our  bosom's  pleasures  and  its  care  ? 

'Tis  vain  ! — Say  we  that  Lucy's  mind. 

Yet  scarcely  to  her  fate  resign 'd. 

That  deep  affliction  keenly  felt 

As  on  the  past  it  fondly  dwelt. 

Her  arms  were  round  her  husband  flung. 

And,  weeping,  on  his  neck  she  hung. 


LUCY;    OR,  THE  MASXED  BALL.  129 

The  past  was  all  a  fairy  dream, 
A  joyous  hour,  a  sunny  gleam  : 
While  Doubt  upon  the  future  flings 
His  dark,  foreboding  shadovvings. 
But  tears,  in  lovers'  bridal  hour. 
Are  droppings  of  a  summer  shower. 
Soon  spent :  and.  if  to  man  be  given 
A  foretaste  of  the  bliss  of  heaven, 
It  is,  when,  at  Affection's  shrine. 
Two  faithful  hearts  their  fates  conjoin. 
Alas  !  that  all  so  short  should  be 
Their  dream  of  young  felicity  ! 
Like  scene,  depicted  by  the  eye 
Of  Fancy,  on  an  evening  sky  ; 
Scarce  formed,  before  it  fades  from  sight 
Behind  the  curtain  of  the  night. 
For  since,  in  Paradise,  began 
The  influence  of  Love  on  man. 
The  hour  of  rapture  still  hath  been 
Short  as  the  twilight's  closing  scene. 

Now  changed  the  daisied  mead,  the  hill, 
The  vine-clad  cot,  the  grove,  the  rill. 
Nature  and  all  her  green  retreats 
For  squares,  and  palaces,  and  streets : 

K 


130  death's  doings. 

And  Lucy,  simple  village  maid, 
As  Fashion's  votary  arrayed. 
Gracing  with  beauty  Rank  and  Pride, 
Is  hailed  as  wealthy  Edmund's  bride. 
But  true  to  Nature,  for  a  while 
Lucy  saw  only  splendid  toil 
In  fashion,  and  oft  sighing,  cast 
A  wistful  look  upon  the  past : 
But  Edmund  still  was  kind  ;  and  he 
Declaimed  of  wealth's  felicity ; 
And  she  believed  ;  and  quickly  shone 
Of  Fashion's  stars  the  brightest  one. 

Her  mother  wept  the  change,  in  vain. 

And  sought  her  solitude  again: 

While  midnight  hours,  routs,  concerts,  balls, 

The  feverish  sleep  till  noon,  the  calls 

Of  heartless  visitors,  the  ride 

For  morning  air  at  eventide  ; 

Meeting  old  dowagers  in  shops, 

The  gossip  of  intruding  fops. 

Scandal,  the  fulsome  flattery 

Of  those  who  prey  on  vanity. 

Dress,  news,  the  opera,  the  play, 

Fill'd  Lucy's  hours  from  day  to  day. 


LUCY  ;    OR,    THE  MASKED  BALL.  131 

But,  ah  !  no  more  the  blushing  rose 
Of  health  upon  her  soft  cheek  glows  ; 
For  Death,  beneath  whose  blasting  lower 
Already  drooped  the  fragile  flower. 
Had  glared  on  her.     The  toilet  nigh 
Tended  he  oft  assiduously  ; 
And  whispering  soft,  as  Bridget  dare. 
What  slight  habiliments  to  wear, 
What  rouge  the  faded  cheek  could  dye 
In  mock  of  Nature's  mastery. 
On  her  fair  bosom  breathed  : — the  air. 
Envenomed,  chilled  the  current  there 
Of  life's  warm  flood,  and  its  fell  load 
Left  in  that  bosom  to  corrode. 
Poor  Lucy  !  weetless  of  thy  fate, 
Like  bird  by  serpent  fascinate. 
Pleasure  allures  thy  careless  heart. 
But  rankles  there  the  poison's  smart ! 
Why  that  commotion  ?  wherefore  all 
Those  ornaments  in  room  and  hall  ? 
Upon  the  walls  are  festoons  hung. 
With  roses  and  with  lilies  strung ; 
While  ivy  wreaths  the  columns  bind, 
By  nicest  .skill  of  art  de.sign'd ; 
And,  carved  in  purest  gold,  the  vine 
Their  lofty  capitals  entwine. 
k2 


132  death's  doings. 

Pictured  upon  the  floor,  is  seen 

The  story  of  Cytherea's  queen 

Just  risen  from  the  waves,  while  nigh 

Cupids  on  wanton  pinions  fly. 

From  sculptured  urns,  fresh  flowers  distil 

Their  sweetest  scents  the  air  to  fill ; 

And,  Art  with  Nature  striving,  seem 

All  realized  which  poets  dream ; 

And  Edmund's  house  a  temple  smiles 

For  Pleasure's  ever-witching  wiles. 

The  cards  are  sent,  the  night  draws  nigh 

For  the  masked  ball's  festivity  : 

And,  with  the  toilet's  tasteful  cares, 

Lucy  to  meet  her  guests  prepares. 

Her  graceful  ringlets,  trained  to  throw 

Soft  shadows  on  the  bosom's  snow. 

Are  bound  with  wreath,  where  rubies  made 

The  flowers,  on  leaves  of  diamond  laid. 

Strings  of  pale,  orient  pearls  lie 

On  that  fair  bosom's  ivory. 

Whose  heaving  charms  the  kerchief's  gauze 

Scarce  from  the  wandering  eye  withdraws ; 

While,  on  the  cheek,  is  lightly  spread 

The  rouge's  softly  blended  red. 

For  the  live  rose  that  blossomed  there 

Withered  in  Fashion's  atmosphere. 


LUCY;  OR,  THE  MASKED  BALL.       133 

Circling  her  slender  waist,  the  zone 
Was  clasped  with  a  large  onyx  stone. 
On  which  was  carved,  all  disarray'd. 
Of  beauteous  form,  a  stooping  maid 
Laving  her  feet  with  crystal  wave 
That  issued  from  a  gelid  cave. 

But,  vainly,  dress  and  jewels  try 

Her  native  charms  to  amplify ; 

And,  vainer  still,  to  stay  the  dart 

Death  levels  at  her  youthful  heart. 

He,  grisly  tyrant !  silently 

In  the  pearly  lustre  of  her  eye. 

Marking  how  slow  his  poison  wrought. 

Impatient,  for  an  instant,  thought 

To  strike  the  blow :  but  paused,  and  o'er 

Her  bosom  breathed  as  before. 

Like  northern  sleety  blast  it  fell 

And  froze  life's  current  to  its  well ; 

Shook  her  whole  frame,  through  limb  and  arm. 

And  all  was  horror  and  alarm  : 

But,  soon  revived,  Lucy  is  found 

The  gayest  of  the  festive  round. 

What  needs  it  that  gay  scene  describe. 
The  dazzling  lights,  the  masked  tribe. 


134  death's  doings. 

The  music's  melody,  the  feet 

That,  glancing  to  its  measures  beat ; 

What  needs  it  say,  how  were  display'd 

The  characters  in  masquerade  ? 

The  matron,  in  the  maid's  attire. 

Cloaking  with  modesty  desire  ; 

The  sober  squire  of  seventy 

Tottering  in  guise  of  chivalry ; 

The  widow,  in  her  second  weeds. 

As  nun  devout  with  cross  and  beads ; 

The  faithless  wife  aa  vestal  pure ; 

The  rake  in  clericals  demure ; 

The  clown,  the  king,  the  saint,  the  thief. 

Lawyers  who  never  saw  a  brief. 

Priests,  soldiers,  madmen,  England,  France, 

Love,  Folly,  Death,  all  mingled  in  the  dance. 

What  youth  is  he,  whom  Lucy's  eye 

Still  follows  so  assiduously  ? 

Who  ever  tracks,  from  place  to  place. 

That  nymph  in  habit  of  a  Grace, 

Whose  interchange  of  amorous  glance 

Bespeaks  the  future  dalliance? 

Oh  !  hapless  moment ! — weight  of  woes  ! 

'Tis  Edmund,  and  him  Lucy  knows. 

Can  words  the  wounded  feelings  speak 

That  flushed  with  ire  her  angel  cheek  ! 


LUCY  ;    OR,  THE  MASKED  BALL.  ,    135 

Can  language  paint  the  deep  distress 
Whicii  changed  that  flush  to  pallidness  ? 
Now  swims  the  room  before  her  eyes  ; 
Quenched  seem  the  lights,  the  music  dies  ; 
She  feels  a  horror  o'er  her  creep  ; 
She  sobs,  but  tries,  in  vain,  to  weep  ; 
But,  uttering  shrieks  of  wild  dismay, 
Sinks  to  the  ground  and  swoons  away. 

Is  there  a  sight  more  full  of  woe 

lu  the  wide  range  of  ills  below, 

Than  youthful  loveliness,  when  laid. 

Bereft  of  sympathetic  aid. 

On  couch  of  sickness  ? — and  is  nigh 

No  breast,  on  which  the  head  may  lie. 

No  hand,  to  wipe  away  a  tear. 

No  voice,  to  whisper  in  the  ear 

Sweet  words  of  Hope:— but  her  last  moan 

The  suflcrer  must  breathe  alone  ? 

Ah  !  none  : — yet  such  was  Lucy's  fate, 

Though  crowds  of  menials  on  her  wait. 

When  Death's  fell  breathings  tainted  all. 

Even  the  cup  medicinal. 

Still,  wildly,  her  delirious  eye 

Would  roll,  her  mother  to  descry ; 

And,  '' mother,"  that  endearing  name. 

Her  tongue  a  thousand  times  exclaim. 


136 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


Ah,  Lucy  !  when  it  was  too  late. 

Thy  mother,  and  thy  faithless  mate. 

Both  wept  beside  thee. — Woke  to  shame, 

A  humbled  penitent  he  came 

And  pardon  craved. — She  turned  her  eye. 

Like  a  pure  angel  from  the  sky 

Smiling  in  peace,  and  mildly  said — 

"  Edmund,  'tis  given," — then  droop'd  her  head. 

'Tvvas  o'er — but,  yet,  the  smile  remain'd  :— 

'Twas  all  of  Lucy  Death  had  gained. 

A.  T.  T. 


TIHEE    MOTHEH. 


137 


TO  THE  MOTHER. 


Nay  !  youthful  Mother,  do  not  fly, 

Though  pleasure  lure,  and  flatt'ry  court  thee, 
Soothe  thy  sick  infant's  moaning  cry, 

And  wake  the  smile  that  must  transport  thee. 

Life  has  no  charm  so  deep,  so  dear. 
As  that  soft  tie  thou  blindly  leavest — 

No  love  so  constant  and  sincere. 

As  that  which  fills  the  heart  thou  grievest. 

In  all  the  bloom  of  beauty's  pride. 
In  all  ambition's  vainest  splendour, 

Ne'er  was  thy  woman's  heart  supplied 
With  bliss  so  pure,  with  joy  so  tender. 

Canst  thou  forsake  that  joy  so  soon  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  the  lips  that  bless'd  thee, 
When,  bending  o'er  this  precious  boon. 

The  Father  wept  whilst  he  caress'd  thee  ? 


138  death's  doings. 

Is  it  for  gauds  of  dress,  and  dance, 
Thou  canst  renounce  a  claim  so  holy. 

To  win  the  warm,  insulting  glance, 
And  woo  the  praise  of  idle  folly  ? 

Then  go ! — a  fair,  but  fragile  flower, 
A  dazzling,  heartless,  careless  beauty. 

To  risk  thy  fame — to  lose  thy  power — 
That  power  which  dwells  alone  with  duty. 

Go! — and  thy  bosom's  lord  offend. 

Consign  thy  suff'ring  babe  to  sorrow — 

Death,  the  kind  nurse,  its  woes  will  end — 
Thy  boy  shall  grace  his  arms  to-morrow. 


B.  H. 


139 


TO  THE  MEMORY 

OF 

MY     INFANT     NIECE. 

[Ob.  Feb.  6,  1826— iEx.  2.] 


For  ever  gone? — sweet  bud  of  .spring  ! 

Yes ; — from  its  parent  stem  'tis  riven  ! 
Scarce  had  it  drank  the  morning  dew. 
Or  oped  its  petals  to  our  view. 
Ere  destined  'twas,  aside  to  fling 

Its  earthly  form,  and  bloom  in  Heaven  ! 

Yes — thou  art  gone  ! — nor  pray'rs,  nor  sighs 

Can  aught  avail ! — 'twas  Death  who  sought  thee ! 
Those  cherub  smiles,  that  lisping  tongue, 
Those  arms  which  round  thy  Mother  clung. 
Had  mark'd  thee  for  the  Tyrant's  prize, — 
And  in  his  cold  embrace  he's  caught  thee  ! 


140  death's  doings. 

How  oft,  when  lulling  thee  to  sleep, 

I've  seen  thy  Mother  fondly  press  thee! 
How  often,  kiss  away  thy  tears, 
And.  hush  thy  cries,  and  calm  thy  fears, — 
And  when  thou  still  would st  sob  and  weep. 
With  what  affection  she'd  caress  thee  ! 


For,  as  she  watch'd  thy  opening  bloom. 

Predicting  future  days  of  pleasure. 
She  little  thought  misfortune's  blight 
So  soon  would  wither  her  delight ; — 
She  dreamt  not  that  an  early  tomb 
Would  close  upon  her  infant  treasure  ! 

Great  were  her  hopes  ! — yet,  doubtless,  fears 
With  all  her  cheering  hopes  were  blended  ; 

For,  haply,  none  like  parents  feel 

The  hopes  and  fears  they'd  fain  conceal, — 

Increasing  with  increasing  years, 
Till  Life  and  all  its  cares  are  ended. 

Yet,  who  could  view  thy  dimpled  cheek. 

And  look  for  aught  but  years  of  gladness ; 
Or  see  thy  laughing  dark-blue  eye. 


MY  INFANT  NIECE.  141 

And  think  that  sorrow  was  so  nigh ; — 
Or  hear  thee  first  essay  to  speak. 
And  then  forebode  this  scene  of  sadness  ? 

But,  ah !  our  prospects — oh,  how  vain  ! 

Our  anxious  cares — oh,  how  requited  ! 
A  Mother's  love — a  Father's  pride — 
How  near  to  misery  allied ! 
Their  joy,  how  soon  exchanged  for  pain  ! 

Their  every  hope,  how  quickly  blighted ! 

And  is  it  weakness,  then,  to  mourn. 

When  thus  our  dearest  hopes  are  thwarted  ? — 
When  in  the  arms  of  icy  Death 
A  spotless  babe  resigns  its  breath  I 
To  see  it  from  its  kindred  torn  ! 

A  Mother  from  her  Infant  parted  ! 

Oh,  no ! — it  weakness  ne'er  can  be. 
When  woe-begone,  to  show  our  feeling ! — 

To  shed  the  sympathetic  tear 

In  mournful  silence  o'er  the  bier 

Of  one  so  lov'd  in  infancy ! — 

Such  grief,  alas,  there's  no  concealing  ! 


142 


DEATH  .S  DOINGS. 


But  since  the  fatal  die  is  cast. 

And  unavailing  now  is  sorrow, — 
O  grant,  kind  Heav'n  !  that  future  joy 
And  bliss  serene,  without  alloy. 
Exchanged  may  be  for  troubles  past. 
And  skies  unclouded  gild  the  morrow  ! 


S.  M. 


143 


THE    BALL. 


"  Even  if  I  were  not  prevented  by  this  unlooked- 
for  engagement  from  accompanying  you  to  the  ball 
to-night,  my  love,"  said  the  Honourable  Alfred 
Seymour  to  his  beautiful  young  wife,  "  you  must 
nevertheless  have  declined  it,  for  the  child  is  evi- 
dently unwell ;  look  how  the  pulses  throb  in  this 
little  throat,  Sophia !" — "  So  they  always  do,  I  be- 
lieve. I  really  wish  you  were  less  of  a  croaker 
and  caudle-maker,  my  dear;  however,  to  make  you 
easy,  I  will  send  for  Doctor  Davis  immediately: 
as  to  the  ball,  as  I  am  expected,  and  have  gone 
to  the  trouble  and  expense  of  a  new  dress,  and  have 
not  been  out  for  such  a  long,  long  time,  really  I 
think  I  ought  to  go." 

"  You  would  not  leave  my  boy.  Lady  Sophia,  if" 
— *'  Not  if  there  is  the  least  danger,  certainly ;  nor 
if  the  doctor  should  pronounce  it  ill ;  but  I  do  not 
believe  it  is  so  —I  see  nothing  particular  about  the 
child,  for  my  part." 


144  death's  doings. 

As  the  young  mother  said  this,  she  cast  her  eyes 
on  the  child,  and  saw  in  its  little  heavy  eyes  some- 
thing which  she  felt  assured  was  particular — she 
saw,  moreover,  more  strikingly  than  ever,  the  like- 
ness it  bore  to  a  justly  beloved  husband,  and  in  a 
tone  of  self-correction  added,  "  Poor  little  fellow,  I 
do  think  you  are  not  quite  the  thing,  and  should  it 
prove  so,  mamma  will  not  leave  you  for  the  world." 

The  countenance  of  the  father  brightened,  and  he 
departed  assured  that  the  claims  of  nature  would 
soon  fully  triumph  over  any  little  lingering  love  of 
dissipation  struggling  for  accustomed  indulgence ; 
and  as  he  bade  her  good  by,  he  did  not  wonder  that 
a  star  so  brilliant  desired  to  exhibit  its  rays  in  the 
hemisphere  alluded  to,  which  was  one  in  the  highest 
circle  of  fashion.  Nevertheless,  as  he  could  not  be 
present  himself,  he  thought  it  on  the  whole  better 
that  she  should  be  absent.  A  young  nobleman,  who 
had  been  his  rival  and  wore  the  willow  some  time 
after  their  marriage,  had  lately  paid  marked  atten- 
tion to  a  young  beauty  every  way  likely  to  console 
him ;  and  Mr.  Seymour  thought  it  would  be  a  great 
pity  if  his  lady,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  some 
months,  should  by  appearing  before  him  in  the  full 
blaze    of  beauty   (unaccompanied   by  that   person 


THE  BALL.  145 

whose  appearance  would  instantly  recall  the  sense 
of  her  engagement)  indispose  his  heart  for  that  happy 
connexion  to  which  he  had  shown  this  predilection. 

Unfortunately,  the  fond  husband  gave  indication 
of  his  admiration  alike  in  looks  and  words ;  and  as 
the  fair  young  mother  turned  from  him  to  her  mirror, 
she  felt  for  a  moment  displeased  that  her  liege  lord 
should  be  less  solicitous  than  herself  to  "  witch  the 
world"  with  her  beauty ;  and  whilst  in  this  humour 
she  called  her  maid  to  show  her  the  turban  and  dress 
"  in  which  she  intended  to  appear." 

"  Lauk,  my  lady  !  why  sure  you  intends  it  yet — 
did  ever  any  body  hear  of  such  a  thing  as  going  for 
to  stay  at  home  when  you  are  all  prepared.  Why, 
you've  been  out  of  sight  ever  so  long  because  you 
was  not  fit  to  be  seen,  as  one  may  say ;  but  now 
that  you  are  more  beautifuller  than  ever,  by  the 
same  rule  you  should  go  ten  times  as  much — do 
pray,  my  lady,  begin  directly — ah !  I  knows  what  I 
know.  Miss  Somerville  may  look  twice  ere  she 
catches  my  lord,  if  so  be  he  sees  you  in  this  here 
plume  ;  cold  broth  is  soon  warm,  they  say." 

Could  it  be  that  this  vulgar  nonsense — the  sense- 

L 


146  death's  doings. 

less  tirade  of  low  flattery  and  thoughtless  stimula- 
tion to  error — could  affect  the  mind  of  the  high-born 
and  highly  educated  Lady  Sophia?  Alas!  yes — a 
slight  spark  will  ignite  dormant  vanity,  and  the  love 
of  momentary  triumph  surpass  the  more  generous 
wish  of  giving  happiness  to  others  in  a  sphere  dis- 
tinct from  our  own. 

The  new  dress  was  tried  on ;  its  effects  extolled 
by  the  maid,  and  admitted  by  the  lady,  who  remem- 
bered to  have  read  or  heard  of  some  beauty  whose 
charms  were  always  most  striking  when  she  first  ap- 
peared after  a  temporary  confinement.  The  car- 
riage was  announced,  and  she  was  actually  descend- 
ing when  the  low  wail  of  the  baby  broke  on  her  ear, 
and  she  recollected  that  in  the  confusion  of  her  mind 
during  the  time  devoted  to  dress  and  anticipated  tri- 
umph, she  had  forgotten  to  send  for  the  medical 
friend  of  the  family. 

Angry  with  herself,  in  the  first  moment  of  repent- 
ance she  determined  to  remain  at  home,  but  unfortu- 
nately reconsidered,  and  went  before  the  arrival  of 
the  doctor ; — 'tis  true  she  left  messages  and  various 
orders,  and  so  far  fulfilled  a  mother's  duties,  but 
she  yet  closed  her  eyes  to  the  evident  weakness  of 


THE  BALL.  147 

her  boy,  and  contented  herself  with  determining  to 
return  as  soon  as  it  was  possible. 

But  who  could  return  while  they  found  themselves 
the  admired  of  all,  and  when  at  least  the  adoration 
of  eyes  saluted  her  from  him  whom  she  well  knew  it 
was  cruelty  or  sin  to  attract.  The  observation 
forced  upon  her  of  Miss  Somerville's  melancholy 
looks  told  her  this,  and  compelled  her  to  recollect 
that  she  was  without  her  husband,  and  therefore 
criticallj'^  situated ;  and  as  '*  in  the  midst  of  life  we 
are  in  death,"  so  she  proved  that  in  the  midst  of  tri- 
umph we  may  be  humbled — in  the  midst  of  pleasure 
be  pained ;  and  she  resolved  to  fly  from  the  scene  of 
gaiety  more  quickly  than  she  had  come. 

But  numerous  delays  arose,  each  of  which  har- 
rassed  her  spirits  not  less  than  they  retarded  her 
movements,  and  she  became  at  length  so  annoyed, 
as  to  lose  all  her  bloom  and  hear  herself  as  much 
condoled  with  on  her  looks  as  she  had  a  few  hours 
before  been  congratulated  ;— she  felt  ill,  and  was 
aware  that  she  merited  to  be  ill,  and  had  a  right  to 
expect  reproaches  from  her  husband,  not  less  on  ac- 
count of  herself  than  her  child  ;  and  whilst  in  this 
state  of  perplexity  was  summoned  to  her  carriage  by 

l2 


148  death's  doings. 

her  servants,  who,  in  the  confusion  occasioned  by 
messengers  from  home  as  well  as  from  herself,  had 
increased  her  distress. 

The  young  mother  arrived  in  time  to  see  the  face 
of  her  dying  child  distorted  by  convulsions,  and  to 
meet  from  her  husband  anger,  reproach,  and  con- 
tempt. She  was  astonished,  even  terrified,  by  wit- 
nessing the  death  of  the  innocent  being  she  had  for- 
saken in  a  moment  so  critical ;  and  bitter  was  the 
sorrow  and  remorse  which  arose  from  offending  him 
who  had  hitherto  loved  her  so  fondly  and  esteemed 
her  so  highly.  These  emotions  combining  with  other 
causes,  rendered  her  soon  the  inhabitant  of  a  sick- 
bed, and  converted  a  house  so  lately  the  abode  of 
happiness  and  hope,  into  a  scene  of  sorrow,  anxiety, 
and  death.  Lady  Sophia,  after  much  suffering,  re- 
covered her  health ;  but  when  she  left  her  chamber 
she  became  sensible  that  although  pity  and  kindness 
were  shown  to  her  situation,  esteem  and  confidence 
were  withdrawn.  She  had  no  child  to  divert  the  me- 
lancholy of  her  solitary  hours,  and,  what  was  of  more 
consequence,  no  husband  who  could  condole  with 
her  on  its  loss — silence  of  the  past  was  the  utmost 
act  of  tenderness  to  which  Mr.  Seymour  could  bring 
himself  on  this  subject,  which  recurred  to  him  with 


THE  BALL.  149 

renewed  paiii  when  his  anxiety  was  removed  for  the 
life  of  one  still  dear,  though  no  longer  invaluable. 

And  all  this  misery,  the  fearful  prospect  of  a  long 
life  embittered  by  self-reproach,  useless  regret,  and 
lost  affection,  was  purchased  by  a  new  dress  and  an 
ignorant  waiting-maid — a  risk  so  full  of  danger  and 
so  fatal  in  effect  was  incurred,  to  strike  a  man  al- 
ready refused,  and  wound  a  woman  who  never  in- 
jured her.  Such  are  the  despicable  efforts  of  vanity 
for  temporary  distinction,  and  such  the  deplorable 
consequences  of  quitting  the  tender  offices  of  affec- 
tion and  transgressing  the  requisitions  of  duty. 

B.  H. 


150 


HYPOCHONDRIANA. 


THE  LAMENT. 


Op  all  the  ills  foredoomed  by  Fate, 
That  haunt  and  vex  this  mortal  state. 
None  holds  such  firm  and  dismal  sway. 
Augmenting-  night,  and  darkening  day, — 
As  the  foul  pest — accurst,  unholy. 
Sad-eyed,  soul-sinking  melancholy ! 

The  fears  that  come  without  a  call. 
The  shade  that,  like  a  thrice-heaped  pall. 
Drops  o'er  the  shuddering,  unstrung  sense. 
In  wide  and  drear  omnipotence  ! 
The  aimless  blank,  the  sightless  stare. 
The  nerve,  with  all  its  fibres  bare ; 
The  shapes  grotesque  that  start  to  view. 
And,  as  their  victim  shrinks,  pursue; 
The  sickening  languor,  "  last  not  least," 
That  spreads  o'er  all  the  damp  chill  breast. 
Unnerves  the  will,  and  racks  the  head. 
And  brings  the  tears  into  their  bed ; 


THE    HYPOCIIOKDKIA'C. 


HYPOCHONDRIANA. 

These  are  amongst  the  horrors,  thou, 
Dread  Demon,  heapest  on  my  brow. 

Reader !  these  are  no  fancied  woes. 
For  could  I  to  thy  view  disclose 
The  visions  that  torment  my  sight; 
Each  grinning  elf,  each  grisly  sprite,— 
However  strong  thy  neves  may  be. 
Thou  wouldst  not  mock,  but  pity  me. 

*  *  *  * 

*  *  *  * 

Ah !  see  you  not  that  monstrous  birth 
Engender'd  by  yon  teeming  hearth  ? 
Mark  that  fantastic  shapeless  frame. 
All  head  and  legs,  with  eyes  of  flame  ! 

My  vision  reels         *  * 

*  *  *  * 

*■  *  *  * 

Maddening,  I  to  my  window  crawl,— 

Alas,  alas,  discomfort  all ! 

Rain,  rain,  eternal  rain  descending. 

My  weather-glass  no  change  portending  ;- 

The  black  wet  mass  of  yesterday 

In  loosening  torrents  drowns  the  May! 

Oh,  happy  climate !  beauteous  Spring  ! 

Last  Winter  was  the  self-same  thing. 


151 


152  death's  doings. 

Why  not  at  once  give  all  the  slip  ? — 

Yon  sleepy  potion  tempts  my  lip  : 

The  waning  hour-glass  seems  to  say, 

*'  Thy  sand,  like  mine,  has  drained  away ;" 

And  by  the  Death's  head  on  the  ground 

Again  my  straining  sight  is  bound. — 

One  glass  suffices — shall  I  try. 

And  shift  this  clinging  agony  ? — 

Shall  I  *  *  * 


Here  the  desponding  MS.  from  whicli  these  Hnes  are  copied 
abruptly  breaks  off;  and  we  are  left  in  doubt  whether  the  wise  sug- 
gestion of  the  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet  was  adopted  by  the  writer 
or  not. 


J.  o. 


153 


S  P  L  E  E  IN 


Canker  of  Life  !  beneath  whose  baneful  sway 
The  kind  affections  wither  and  decay. 
Whose  torpid  influence  and  whose  dark  control 
Can  "  freeze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul ;" 
With  self-inflicted  fears  the  bosom's  lord 
In  every  dreaded  semblance  finds  accord. 
Shaping  a  horrid  chaos  on  the  brain, 
To  forms  and  colours  of  the  darkest  stain. — 
Ah,  wherefore  had  the  tyrant-monster  birth. 
To  blot  the  fairest  prospects  of  the  earth  ! 
Veiling  the  richest  treasures  of  the  skies, — 
Damping  the  sounds  of  pleasure  as  they  rise, — 
Stamping  its  horrid  coinage  on  the  thought. 
Where  the  base  image  into  visions  's  brought ! 
'Tis  like  a  substance — that  we  cannot  hold  ; 
Speaks  like  a  legend — that  may  not  be  told  : 
Whose  import's  felt — imparted  without  breath — 
Shades  to  the  sight, — but  every  shade  a  Death. 

Edward. 


154 
THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

A    TALE. 


BY  AN  EYE-WITNESS. 


Tom  Wunderlich  was  the  son  of  Jacob  Wun- 
derlich,  an  honest  sugar-baker,  on  Fish-Street  Hill, 
who,  having  acquired  an  ample  fortune  in  trade,  was 
anxious  to  elevate  his  descendants,  above  the  hum- 
ble German  stock  from  which  he  sprung,  by  marrying 
into  some  patrician  family  of  his  adopted  country, 
to  whom  his  wealth  and  interest  in  the  city  would 
make  him  acceptable.  He  fixed  his  choice  upon  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Sir  Roger  Penny,  a  Baronet,  of 
an  ancient  family,  with  much  pride,  two  sons,  eleven 
daughters,  and  twelve  hundred  a-year ;  but  the 
match  was  not  concluded  without  the  stipulation 
that  he  would  get  himself  previously  knighted,  a 
matter  which,  although  at  variance  with  his  sugar- 
baking  ideas,  yet,  he  was  convinced,  was  consistent 
with  the  object  of  his  marriage  ;  and,  having  accom- 
plished it,  he  quickly  transformed  Miss  Penny  into 
Lady  Wunderlich. 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.  155 

My  lady  gained  some  long-anticipated  points  by 
her  marriage.     She  had  acquired  the  same  title  as 
her  mother,  and,  although  the  rank  of  her  husband 
was  inferior  to  that  of  her  father,  yet,  his  fortune 
turned  the  scale  greatly  in  her  favour.      She   had 
much  at  her  command  ;  and  by  her  power  of  occa- 
sionally obliging  the  old  lady  in  pecuniary  matters, 
she  obtained  an  ascendancy  over  her  mamma  which 
consoled  her  for  deficiency  of  rank .     Poor  AVunder- 
lich,  on  the  contrary,  found  that  he  had  spread  his 
bed  with  nettles.     His  sugar-baking  concern  he  wil- 
lingly relinquished,  as  his  fortune  was  ample;  but 
to  quit  Lloyd's  ;  his  old  cronies  and  city  habits  ;  to 
be  forced  to  enter  into  the  beau-monde ;  to  pay  and 
receive  forenoon  calls  with  ray  lady ;  attend  evening 
parties,  give  at  homes,  balls,  and  suppers  ;  and,  to 
use  his  own  expressions,  '*  to  have  his  house  turned 
inside  out,"  without  daring  to  exclaim,  "  My  Got, 
meine  ladie  !    this  will  not  do"— was  too  much  for 
the  worthy  knight;  whose  chagrin,  having  brought 
on  an  attack  of  confirmed  jaundice,  terminated  his 
disappointment  and  his  life,  a  few  months  after  the 
birth  of  our  hero.     Previous  to  his  death,  however. 
Sir  Jacob  had  made  a  will,  leaving  a  very  moderate 
jointure  only  to  Lady  Wunderlich ;  and  the  rever- 
sion of  his  property  to  his  son  ;  failing  whom  it  was 


156  death's  doings. 

to  devolve  upon  a  nephew  who  had  succeeded  him 
in  the  sugar-baking  concern.  This  deed  blasted  the 
hopes  of  any  second  alliance,  in  the  mind  of  Lady 
Wunderlich,  and  obliged  her  to  devote  her  life  to  the 
superintendence  of  the  health  and  education  of  her 
son,  on  whom  all  her  expectations  now  rested. 

"  I  recollect  Tom"  (says  the  writer  of  this  narra- 
tive,) "  at  school ;  a  fine  spirited  boy ;  a  little 
wilful,  perhaps,  and  too  timid  in  the  play-ground,  if 
a  shower  threatened,  or  the  wind  blew  from  the 
north-east.  But  then,  although  all  the  boys  quizzed 
him,  yet,  they  pitied  him ;  for  his  mamma  sent  every 
morning  to  inquire  after  his  health.  Mr.  Bolus,  the 
apothecary,  saw  him  regularly  twice  a  week,  when 
he  was  well,  and  twice  a  day  if  labouring  under  the 
slightest  symptoms  of  indisposition ;  and,  frequently, 
when  the  boys,  on  a  half-holy  day,  were  at  cricket  on 
the  common,  a  servant  would  ride  over  from  the  Pa- 
vilion, to  see  whether  Tom  had  cast  his  jacket ;  or, 
if  the  air  happened  to  be  chilly,  whether  his  neck 
were  encompassed  with  one  of  the  numerous  ban- 
danas her  ladyship  had  sent  for  that  purpose  in  his 
trunk.  Tom  was  not  devoid  of  ability,  but  Doctor 
Bumpem  was  ordered  not  to  overstrain  his  mind ;  for 
being  a  delicate  boy,  an  only  child,  and  the  heir  to  a 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.  167 

large  fortune,  learning  was  quite  a  secondary  con- 
cern ;  health  was  every  thing,  and  to  secure  that  all 
other  considerations  were  to  yield.    Tom  was,  never- 
theless, a  mild,    good-natured,   friendly   boy;   and, 
although  he  was  frequently  laughed  at,  as  much  on 
account  of  his  mother's  weakness  as  his  own,  yet, 
he  was  universally  liked.     But,  as  he  did  little  in 
the  way  of  classical  literature,  he  quitted  Bumpem's 
with   the   character  of  being  a  good-natured,  idle, 
soft-headed  boy ;  whom  the  doctor  said  it  would  be 
useless  to  send  to  Eaton  or  to  Harrow ;  and,  there- 
fore, in  order  to  fit  him  for  Oxford,  in  which  univer- 
sity his  fortune,  in  her  ladyship's  opinion,  rendered 
it  necessary  he  should  sojourn,  he  was  placed  under 
the   care  of  a   clergyman,  near  Cheltenham.     This 
arrangement  was   formed   by  Lady  Wunderlich,  in 
order  that  Tom,  w^hilst  his   head  was  stored  with 
classics  by  his  tutor,  should  have  the  health  of  his 
body  confirmed  by  the  constant  use  of  the  waters ; 
to  superintend  which,  her  ladyship  took  a  house  in 
that  modern  Sinope.* 


*  The  original  name  of  Sinuessa,  a  town  in  Campania,  celebrated 
for  its  hot-baths  and  mineral  watei-s,  was  Sinope. — Ovid,  Met.  15, 
V.  715.— Mela.  2,  c.  4.— Strab.  5.— Liv.  22,  c.  13.— Mart.  6,  ep.  42, 
1.  11,  ep.  8. 


158  death's  doings. 

From  this  time  I  lost  sight  of  Tom  for  nearly  ten 
years,  during  three  of  which  I  have  been  informed 
he  had  lived  in  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  where  he 
kept  a  couple  of  horses  and  a  servant;  that,  four 
years  after  leaving  the  University,  he  had  travelled 
to  Italy,  attended  by  Dr.  Bolus ;  for  the  quondam 
apothecary  had  procured  an  Aberdeen  diploma,  at 
her  ladyship's  request,  in  order  to  confer  dignity  on 
himself,  and  to  add  to  that  of  his  patron,  in  the  eyes 
of  foreigners.  The  doctor  was  chosen  for  this  im- 
portant office,  because  he  had  been  acquainted  with 
Tom's  constitution  from  his  infancy ;  and  not  less  on 
account  of  his  knowledge  of  that  of  her  ladyship, 
who  was  to  be  the  companion  of  her  son  and  the 
doctor ;  for  the  latter  of  whom,  it  was  scandalously 
reported,  she  had  a  more  than  ordinary  attachment. 
How  Tom  passed  through  this  journey,  and  what 
harvest  of  knowledge  he  reaped  from  travel,  I  could 
never  learn ;  although  I  have  heard  him  declaim 
against  the  continent  generally  for  its  want  of  com- 
fort and  of  medical  talent ;  and  once  descant  feel- 
ingly on  the  insupportable  heat  of  Naples  and  the 
infernal  scorching  sirocco  which  he  felt  at  Nice. 
Tom,  however,  having  become  of  age  when  on  his 
travels,  her  ladyship   and  the   doctor  contrived  to 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.  159 

wheedle  him  out  of  twenty  thousand  pounds ;  and, 
having  united  their  destinies,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bolus 
remained  behind  at  Naples ;  whilst  their  son  returned 
to  England  with  a  young  Scotch  physician,  who  was 
glad  of  an  opportunity  of  being  franked  home.  Tom 
had  arrived  ten  days  only,  when  I  happened  to  meet 
him  in  Hyde  Park. 

It  was  towards  the  middle  of  May :  the  wincj  was 
blowing  rather  sharply  from  the  north-east,  when 
looking  in  at  the  window  of  a  chariot,  which  formed 
one  of  the  line  of  vehicles  that  moved  slowly  along 
on  each  side  of  me  as  I  walked  my  horse  up  the 
drive,  I  perceived  a  gentleman,  whom  I  thought  I 
ought  to  recognise,  seated  in  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage, muffled  up  in  a  fur  cloak.  He  seemed  also 
to  be  actuated  by  the  same  feeling,  for,  as  if  by  a 
simultaneous  impulse,  his  fingers  were  tapping  at 
the  glass  at  the  moment  I  was  turning  my  horse's 
head  to  beckon  him  to  let  down  the  window.  I  soon 
perceived  he  was  my  old  schoolfellow,  and  waited 
for  a  minute  expecting  the  carriage-window  to  be 
opened  ;  but  finding  that,  from  the  shake  of  his  head 
and  his  signs,  he  wished  me  to  go  round  to  the  lee- 
ward side  of  the  carriage ;  which,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, I  was  enabled  to  efi"ect ;  in  a  few  minutes  I 


160  death's  doings. 

was  convinced,  from  the  shake  of  his  hand,  that  my 
friend  Wunderlich  carried  in  his  bosom  the  same 
heart,  as  a  man,  which  had  beaten  so  warmly  in  it 
as  a  boy.  "  Hah !  Dick,  my  worthy  fellow !"  said 
he,  "  how  happy  I  am  to  meet  you.  Let  me  see  !  it 
is  ten  years  since  we  parted  at  old  Bumpem's  : — 
how  is  the  old  boy  1 — Ten  years  !  i'faith  time  has  al- 
tered both  of  us,  Dick  ;  I  have  been  over  half  of 
Europe  since  we  parted,  and  it  is  only  ten  days  since 
I  arrived  from  Italy.  But,"  continued  he,  holding  a 
handkerchief  to  his  mouth,  "  this  cursed,  variable 
climate  will  kill  me.  Indeed,  my  dear  friend  !  you 
must  excuse  me  from  talking  more  at  present :  but 
come  to  me  this  evening.  I  have  lodgings  at  the 
bookseller's,  in  Holies  Street : — went  there  to  be 
near  my  doctor : — good  bye,  Dick  !  don't  fail  to 
come,  good  bye  !  adieu !"  and  drawing  up  the  win- 
dow, he  beckoned  to  the  coachman  to  drive  on.  I 
had  returned  my  friend's  salutation  with  all  the 
warmth  in  my  nature';  but  after  the  first  "  how  d'ye" 
— could  not  wedge  in  a  single  sentence  ;  and  re- 
mained, as  it  were,  rivetted  to  the  spot,  for  a  few 
minutes  after  his  carriage  drove  on,  uncertain  whe- 
ther the  whole  was  not  a  delusion.  "  If  it  be  not 
so,"  thought  I,  "  the  poor  fellow  must  be  either  on 
the  verge  of  insanity,  if  not  already  insane  :  but  I 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  KJl 

will  determine  the  point  this  evening,  by  calling  at 
his  lodgings ;"  and,  turning  my  horse,  I  rode  home 
to  dinner,  revolving  in  my  mind  the  oddness  of  our 
meeting,  after  so  long  an  absence. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  I  entered 
Tom's  lodgings.  He  was  seated  before  a  large  fire, 
in  an  elbow-chair,  rolled  in  a  chintz  dressing-gown, 
with  his  nightcap  on,  and  his  feet  pushed  into  a 
pair  of  red-morocco  slippers  lined  with  fur.  On  a 
small  table  near  him,  lay  his  watch,  six  apothecary's 
phials,  full  of  medicine,  one  of  which,  by  the  label, 
was  to  be  taken  every  fourth  hour,  and  a  pill-box 
containing  half  a  dozen  pills.  On  the  same  table, 
also,  was  a  pair  of  scales,  in  which  I  perceived  he 
had  been  weighing  two  ounces  of  biscuit;  and  a  gra- 
duated pint  measure,  which  contained  one  ounce 
and  a  half  of  distilled  water.  Tom  rose  and  shook 
me  warmly  by  the  hand  as  I  entered  the  room;  but 
his  eye  had  lost  the  animation  it  displayed  when  we 
first  recognised  one  another  in  the  park  ;  and  he  was 
more  emaciated  than  I  had  anticipated  I  should  find 
him.  "  I  am  truly  grieved  to  see  you  in  this  plight, 
my  dear  friend !"  said  I,  glancing  my  eye  upon  the 
garniture  of  the  little  table  ;  *'  what  are  your  com- 
plaints ?"     "  Ah  \"  replied  he,  forcing  a  faint  smile, 

M 


162  death's  doings. 

"  there's  the  rub  ! — Were  my  complaints  but  known, 
there  would  be  no   difficulty  in  curing   them.      At 
least,  so  says  Dr.  Frogsfoot,  who,  however,  assures 
me  that  it  is  a  gastric  affection  ;  and  that  the  uneasy 
state  of  my  head  is  merely  symptomatic,  depending 
on  the  connexion  between  the  par  vagrum,  the  symp- 
tomatic nerve,  and  the  great  semilunar  ganglion." 
I  saw  I  had  hit  upon  a  wrong  key.     "  My  learning, 
my  dear  Tom  !"  said  I,  "  does  not  enable  me  to  fol- 
low you  into  the  depths  of  physic  which  these  terms 
imply." — "  I  know  nothing  of  them  either,"  replied 
he,    "  I  only  give    you    the    doctor's    words."     He, 
however,  with  the  greatest  politeness  changed  the 
matter  of  our  discourse,  which  gradually  became  ex- 
tremely  animated ;    and    taking   me    kindly  by  the 
hand,  as  I  rose  to  depart,  he  acknowledged  that  my 
visit  had  done  him  an  essential   service ;    that  the 
pain  in  his  eye,  which  he  was  apprehensive  was  an 
incipient  cataract,  had  completely  left  him  ;  and  he 
earnestly  begged  that  I  would  repeat  my  visits  every 
evening,  whilst  I  remained  in  town.     My  hand  was 
upon  the  handle  of  the  room-door,  and  he  had  rung 
the  bell  for  his  servant  to  attend  me  to  the  street- 
door,  when  I  turned  round,  recollecting  that  I  had 
not  inquired   after  his  mother  ;    and  merely  asked 
**  how  and  where  she  was  ?"    He  started  up  and  ap- 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  163 

proached  me — "  You  must,"  said  he,  *'  sit  down, 
only  for  ten  minutes,  to  hear  that  part  of  my  story." 

I  sat  down  accordingly.     "  You  know  that  d d 

fellow  Bolus  ? — but,  I  am  forgetting,"  looking  at  his 
watch,  "  it  is  time  to  take  my  pill  and  draught." 
He  instantly  placed  one  of  the  pills  upon  his  tongue, 
and  washed  it  down  with  a  draught,  which  he  emp- 
tied into  his  mouth  from  the  phial,  without  evincing 
the  least  reluctance  to  it,  in  any  feature  of  his  face ; 
and,  having  sat  down,  again  began  his  narrative. 

'*  You  know  that  fellow  Bolus?  He  became  a 
physician  and  attended  me  on  my  travels,  in  which 
my  mother  also  formed  a  party.  He  quite  mistook 
my  case,  and  treated  me  improperly  from  the  begin- 
ning; but,  at  length,  he  formed  a  design  upon  my 
poor  mother;  and,  as  his  suit  advanced  with  her,  he 
became  more  and  more  negligent  of  his  patient,  until 
he  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me,  that  my  complaints 
were  all  imaginary ;  although  the  rascal  knew  that 
my  liver  was  in  the  most  torpid  state,  and  the  secre- 
tions consequently  vitiated ;  that  my  stomach  had 
lost  its  digestive  functions  ;  that  the  bowels  were  in 
such  a  sluggish  condition  as  to  require  the  constant 
aid  of  art ;  all  which  had  so  shaken  my  nerves  that 

M  2 


164  death's  doings. 

life  was  a  burden  to  me,  and  I  would  have  given  a 
thousand  pounds  to  any  wretched  bravo,  to  have 
blown  my  brains  out."  Here  my  poor  friend  sunk 
back  in  his  chair,  and  seemed  almost  affected  to 
tears  with  the  recollection  of  what  he  regarded  as 
the  height  of  inhumanity  in  Dr.  Bolus.  It  was  in 
vain  for  me  to  interfere.  I  said  nothing,  and  he 
soon  recovered  his  self-possession.  "  I  really  be- 
lieve," continued  he,  *'  that  the  fellow  would  have 
poisoned  me  if  I  had  remained  longer  his  patient." 
I  soon  convinced  him,  that  the  Doctor  could  have 
no  interest  in  his  death,  as  his  fortune  would  pass  to 
his  cousin,  and  not  to  his  mother,  with  the  detail  of 
whose  marriage  with  Bolus  he  had  concluded  his 
story.  He  appeared  struck  that  he  should  have  for- 
gotten this  fact ;  and  then,  as  if  he  thought  I  also 
doubted  the  validity  of  his  complaints,  beseeched  me 
to  meet  Dr.  Frogsfoot  on  the  following  day ;  and 
concluded  by  assuring  me,  that  he  believed  he  had 
water  on  his  brain,  for  that,  "  this  morning,  two 
drops  of  as  clear  fluid  as  ever  distilled  from  a  rock, 
dropped  from  his  nose  whilst  he  was  at  breakfast." 
I  promised  to  be  present  at  Dr.  Frogsfoot's  next 
visit,  and  hurried  out  of  the  house,  happy  again  to 
get  into  the  world  of  reality  ;   fearful  that  my  own 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  165 

imagination  might  become  infected,  were  I  to  remain 
long  in  the  imaginary  atmosphere  of  evils  which  sur- 
rounded my  unhappy  friend. 

I  entered  Tom's  apartment,  on  the  following  day, 
at  one  o'clock,  and  in  less  than  two  minutes  the 
Doctor  was  announced.  He  was  a  tall,  spare  man, 
of  much  gravity  of  demeanor,  rather  advanced  in 
years,  with  a  thin  sharp  visage,  an  ample  forehead, 
deeply  sunk  eyes,  hollow  cheeks,  and  a  hanging  of 
the  nether  lip,  as  Shakspeare  would  express  himself, 
which  gave  a  marked  peculiarity  of  expression  to 
his  countenance.  He  made  a  slight  inclination  with 
his  head  as  he  entered  the  room,  and,  having  seated 
himself  close  to  my  friend,  inquired,  in  a  soft  under- 
tone of  voice,  how  he  felt  himself;  whilst,  at  the 
same  time,  he  took  out  his  watch,  and  placed  his 
fingers  upon  the  pulse  of  his  patient.  Tom  said  no- 
thing until  this  ceremony  was  over,  after  which  he 
put  out  his  tongue,  then  drew  a  deep  inspiration, 
and  immediately  commenced  a  voluble  detail  of  all 
his  symptoms  and  feelings  since  the  doctor's  last 
visit,  not  forgetting  an  exact  account  of  the  ingesta, 
and  the  quality  and  aspect,  to  the  nicest  shade  of 
colour,  of  the  egesta.  He  had  had  pains  in  his  legs, 
arms,  head,  and  heart ;  he  was  certain  his  complaint 


16G  death's  doings. 

was  retrocedent  Gout ;  he  was  alarmed  this  morning 
with  straitness  in  the  swallow,  indicative  of  Dyspha- 
gia ;  his  perspirations  were  sometimes  so  great,  that 
he  conceived  he  must  be  the  first  victim  to  a  return 
of  the  Sudor  Anglicus  ;  and  concluded  by  seriously 
inquiring,  whether  Phlegmasia  dolens  ever  attacked 
the  arm,  as  his  right  arm  was  so  much  swelled  in 
the  morning,  that  he  was  certain  it  could  not  have 
entered  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  if  the  swelling  had  not 
greatly  fallen.  I  heard,  with  amazement,  Tom's 
knowledge  of  diseases,  and  their  names  ;  the  doctor 
listened  to  him  with  patience ;  and,  at  the  end  of 
each  sentence,  ejaculated  the  word—"  Aye  !"  He 
then  made  a  few  remarks  ;  told  him  that  he  must  be 
galvanized  again,  on  the  following  day;  wrote  on  a 
sheet  of  paper,  "  Pergat  in  vsu  medicamentorum," 
took  his  fee,  said,  "  Good  day,"  in  his  soft,  low 
voice,  with  a  gentle  smile  on  his  features  ;  and, 
again  gently  inclining  his  head,  left  the  room. 

"  This  is  really  too  much,"  said  Tom  as  the  door 
closed  upon  Frogsfoot ;  "  that  is  the  tenth  fee  which 
I  have  given  the  Doctor,  without  receiving  any  more 
satisfaction  than  you  have  heard  to-day,  or  one  new 
prescription.  As  for  his  galvanism — my  skin  is  ex- 
coriated with  the  heat  of  it  where  the  brushes  are 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.  167 

placed ;  and  I  am  certain,  that  if  that  hot  stream  is 
passed  through  my  spine  and  liver  much  longer,  I 
shall  be  burnt  to  a  cinder.  I  will  write  him,  this  in- 
stant, to  discontinue  his  attendance ;  and  procure 
some  other  advice.  Do  you  know  any  good  physi- 
cian, my  dear  Dick?"  As  I  was  convinced  that 
this  hasty  determination  of  poor  Wunderlich  aflForded 
me  an  excellent  opportunity  to  try  the  effects  of 
change  of  air,  scene,  and  social  intercourse,  in  di- 
verting his  mind  from  his  corporeal  ailments,  in 
which  I  could  not  help  thinking  that  fancy  had  a 
considerable  share,  I  told  him  that  I  knew  an  ex- 
cellent physician,  who  lived  near  me  in  the  country, 
and  who  I  was  satisfied  could  cure  him.  He  caught 
at  the  information.  "  But,"  continued  1,  ''you  must 
go  with  me  into  Worcestershire ;  the  air  of  the  Mal- 
vern hills,  the  pure  water,  the  skill  of  the  doctor,  and 
my  own  good  nursing,  will  do  wonders  for  you.  I 
shall  be  here,  to-morrow,  with  my  travelling-car- 
riage, at  twelve:  so  have  every  thing  in  readiness — 
I  will  take  no  refusal."  He  looked  seriously  at  me, 
for  a  few  seconds;  and  then  said,  "  I  thank  you 
greatly ;  but  I  cannot  stand  the  fatigue  of  such  a 
journey." — "Nonsense,  Tom!  trust  that  to  me.  Be 
ready  at  twelve  :"  and  I  abruptly  left  the  house  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  utter  a  negative.     ''A   pretty 


1G8  death's  doings. 

scrape  I  have  got  into,"  thought  I,  as  I  walked  down 
Regent  Street :  "  to  volunteer  myself  as  the  keeper 
of  an  hypochondriac  on  the  verge  of  insanity ! — yet 
— he  is  my  friend ;  and  I  am  rescuing  a  drowning 
man,  which  is  the  duty  of  every  passenger  who  sees 
his  danger,  be  he  friend  or  foe." 

I  had  ordered  the  carriage  to  be  in  Holies  Street  at 
twelve  precisely ;  and,  anxious  to  secure  my  friend, 
walked  to  his  lodging  immediately  after  breakfast. 
I  was  surprised  to  find  the  knocker  of  the  door 
muffled ;  but  only  supposing  from  it  that  his  land- 
lady was  in  the  straw,  I  inquired  hastily  of  his 
servant  if  his  master  was  packing  ?  "  Lord,  Sir  !" 
said  John,  '*  he  is  in  bed."  The  look  of  John  told 
me  something  was  wrong,  but  I  was  not  willing  to 
take  the  hint ;  and,  stepping  into  the  drawing-room, 
said,  carelessly,  "  Tell  your  master  I  am  here." 
Whilst  I  waited  the  return  of  the  servant,  I  took  up 
several  books,  which  were  all  upon  medical  sub- 
jects :  for  instance,  the  Gazette  and  the  Oracle  of 
Health: — Paris  on  Diet  and  Digestion: — Aberne- 
thy's  Works: — Thomson's  London  Dispensatory: — 
and  Good's  Study  of  Medicine. — "  Alas  !  poor  Tom  ! 
if  this  be  your  course  of  reading,  my  efforts  to  wean 
you  from  your  malady  will  prove  fruitless,"  said  I, 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.  169 

soliloquizing  aloud,  as    John   entered  the   room  to 
conduct  me  to  his  master. 

I  found  my  friend  in  bed,  in  a  deplorable  state. 
He  informed  me  that  he  had  been  attacked  with 
spasms  in  the  night,  and  could  not  have  survived 
but  for  the  skilful  aid  of  Doctor  Palm,  whom  he  had 
sent  for,  and  who  he,  momentarily,  expected  would 
repeat  his  visit.  He  had  scarcely  uttered  his  name, 
when  the  bed-room  door  opened,  and  the  doctor  was 
announced.  I  had  no  time  to  make  my  physiogno- 
mical observations,  before  the  learned  gentleman 
was  at  the  bed-side,  which  he  approached  with  a 
light  springy  step,  on  tiptoe;  and  seizing  my  friend's 
hand  between  both  of  his  hands,  and  leaning  for- 
wards, inquired  with  all  the  apparent  warmth  and 
anxiety  of  an  old  associate,  into  the  state  of  his 
present  feelings.  "  I  trust,  my  dear  Sir!"  said  he, 
"  that  the  medicines  which  I  prescribed  speedily  re- 
lieved those  frightful  spasms  ?"  And,  without  wait- 
ing for  a  reply,  turning  to  me,  with  the  sweetest 
smile,  voice,  and  manner  imaginable,  "  I  found  Mr. 
Wunderlich  in  a  very  critical  state."  He  then  seated 
himself,  still  holding  the  hand  of  his  patient,  and  re- 
commenced his  professional  queries.  I  had  now  an 
opportunity  of  observing  the  doctor.  He  was  be- 
low the  ordinary  stature,    and  of  a  meagre  form ; 


170  death's  doings. 

plainly,  I  should  almost  say  shabbily,  attired  ;  but 
his  head  might  have  been  selected  by  an  artist  as  the 
finest  model  for  that  of  a  philosopher.  It  was 
partly  bald ;  the  forehead  beautiful,  broad,  and  ele- 
vated ;  the  eyes  small  and  shaded ;  the  cheek  bones 
rather  high;  the  nose  straight  and  projecting,  and 
the  mouth  large  and  compressed.  The  forehead 
was,  indeed,  the  finest  I  had  ever  seen ;  and  al- 
though he  could  not  be  called  good-looking,  yet 
his  countenance  bore  the  impression  of  superior  in- 
tellect, great  gentleness,  and  an  anxious  desire  to 
please.  When  he  had  finished  his  inquiries  and 
written  his  prescription,  he  politely  addressed  him- 
self to  me; — spoke  of  the  news  of  the  town;  in- 
quired if  I  had  read  the  last  Edinburgh  Review, 
made  many  just  and  critical  remarks  upon  its  merits, 
and  those  of  its  rival,  the  Quarterly  ;  and  entering  a 
little  into  the  characters  of  some  of  the  leading  mem- 
bers of  both  parties  in  Parliament,  displayed  powers 
for  conversation  truly  enviable.  As  he  rose  to  take 
his  leave,  he  again  pressed  his  patient's  hand  be- 
tween both  of  his  hands ;  promised  to  see  him  in  the 
evening,  and  left  the  room  with  the  same  light 
springy  step,  with  which  he  had  entered  it. 

"  Ah !   my  dear  Dick !"  said  Tom,  looking  after 
the  doctor,  "  if  I  had  met  with  that  worthy  man  two 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  17X 

years  ago,  how  much  misery  I  should  have  escaped. 
Would  you  believe  it,  I  had,  besides  Bolus,  three 
different  physicians  at  Naples,  five  at  Rome,  two 
at  Geneva,  three  at  Paris,  my  young  Scotch  tra- 
velling companion  and  Dr.  Frogsfoot  since  my  re- 
turn; and  not  one  of  them  understood  my  case. 
Now  I  feel  that  I  shall  get  well;  and  be  able  to 
visit  you,  in  comfort,  in  Worcestershire.  Did  you 
not  admire  the  tact  with  which  Dr.  Palm  conducted 
his  inquiries  ?  He  is  the  man."  I  nodded  an  as- 
sent; and,  telling  my  poor  friend  that  I  expected, 
on  my  return  to  town,  in  eight  or  ten  days,  to  find 
him  quite  recovered,  I  took  my  leave,  pondering 
on  the  delusions  which  tyrannize  over  reason,  in 
certain  states  of  our  habit ;  and  raising  a  thousand 
metaphysical  conjectures  on  the  nature  of  the  con- 
nexion between  body  and  mind. 

Having  been  detained  longer  in  the  country 
than  I  expected,  twelve  days  had  elapsed  before 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  again  calling  in  Holies 
Street.  On  answering  my  knock,  John  received 
me  with  a  significant  smile  as  he  made  his  usual 
bow.  "  We  are  still  here,"  said  he;  "  and  master 
in  the  old  way.  The  doctor  is  with  him  just  now ; 
but  you, — I  am  sure  you  may  walk  up.  My  mas- 
ter   is    in    the    drawing-room.'^      I   followed    John; 


172  death's  doings. 

and  was  kindlj'  received  by  my  poor  friend.  I  ex- 
pected to  have  seen,  also,  my  late  acquaintance. 
Dr.  Palm;  but  the  individual  who  now  supplied 
his  place,  was  the  antipode,  both  in  form  and 
manner,  of  that  fascinating  disciple  of  Hippo- 
crates. He  was  a  little,  portly  figure,  with  a 
round,  fresh-coloured,  pleasant  face;  and  his  head, 
which  was  rather  large,  covered  with  a  profu- 
sion of  white  hair,  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  the 
close  of  the  last  century.  Indeed,  his  entire  figure 
and  dress  were  those  of  a  substantial  citizen  of 
1790.  He  did  not  rise  when  I  entered ;  but  merely 
made  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head,  and  waved 
his  left  hand,  which  held  his  hat,  raising  it  from 
his  knee  on  which  it  rested.  He  then  fixed  his 
eyes  steadfastly  upon  me,  whilst  I  addressed  my 
friend.  After  a  few  minutes,  turning  suddenly  round 
to  his  patient,  he  abruptly  inquired,  "  Have  you 
any  thing  more  to  say  ?"  Tom  assured  him  that 
he  had  not ;  that  he  fully  understood  his  orders ; 
"  But  the  pain" — "  Stop!" — ejaculated  the  little 
man, — "  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say;  it  is 
all  fudge.  If  you  know  my  orders,  follow  them." 
Notwithstanding  this  specimen  of  his  abrupt  man- 
ner, I  ventured  to  address  the  doctor ;  and  stated, 
as  my  opinion,  that  my  friend  would  benefit  greatly 
by  a  change  of  air  and  scene.     He  again  eyed  me. 


THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC.  ITS 

for  a  few  seconds,  and  demanded,  "  Are  you  a 
physician.  Sir?" — "  No." — "  Are  you  a  surgeon?" 
— "  No." — Then,  Sir,  what  right  have  you  to  form 
an  opinion  on  the  subject?" — and,  without  waiting 
for  a  reply,  rose  from  his  seat  and  left  the  room. 

"  Your  new  doctor  is  the  pink  of  politeness,  my 
dear  Wunderlich !"  said  I,  as  he  shut  the  room  door 
with  a  bang.  "  He  is  a  character ;"  replied  my 
friend.  "  You  must  have  heard  of  him  :  Mr.  My- 
book,  the  eminent  surgeon ;  a  man  of  great  learn- 
ing, consummate  skill  in  his  profession ;  and,  al- 
though apparently  rough  and  abrupt  in  his  manners, 
yet,  I  am  informed,  possessed  of  the  kindest  and 
most  benevolent  disposition."  He,  at  this  moment, 
again  opened  the  door;  and  having  peeped  in  and 
said  "  Friday,"  shut  it,  this  time,  in  a  more  gentle 
manner.  **  What  a  pity,"  said  I,  "  that  the  dia- 
mond has  not  passed  through  the  hand  of  the  lapi- 
dary !  But  what  has  become  of  my  favourite.  Doc- 
tor Palm  ?"  Here  Tom  informed  me,  that  he  and 
the  doctor  had  gone  on  very  well  together  for  a 
week;  but  at  length,  coming  to  a  stand  still,  he 
thought  he  would  try  Mr.  My  book,  whose  work  he 
had  perused,  and  under  whom,  although  he  had 
been  only  four  days,  he  really  thought  he  was  im- 
proved.     "  He   relies  little   upon  medicine,"  said 


174  death's  doings. 

Tom,  ''  of  which  he  says,  I  have  taken  too  much, 
but  greatly  upon  diet  and  regimen.  I  ride  out  twice 
a  day,  dine  at  an  early  hour,  and  eat  a  certain 
quantity  only  of  food  at  each  meal ;  after  which  I 
lie  down  on  the  carpet  for  an  hour,  and  then  crawl, 
on  my  belly,  to  the  corner  of  the  room  for  my  tum- 
bler of  water,  which  is  all  the  liquid  he  allows  me. 
— You  smile,  Dick  !  but,  trust  me,  all  this  is  done 
upon  principles,  which  experience  has  verified."  I 
smiled  at  the  gravity  with  which  my  friend  had 
gone  through  these  details :  telling  him,  at  the  same 
time,  that  I  approved  much  of  that  part  of  his  plan 
which  referred  to  horse  exercise  ;  on  which  account 
the  country  was  the  best  place  for  him  ;  and  that 
I  had  come,  on  purpose,  to  take  him  into  Worces- 
tershire. He  thanked  me,  but  said  he  could  not 
accept  my  offer :  that  he  was  in  the  search  of  health, 
and  must  be  near  advice.  I  perceived  it  was  a 
hopeless  case;  and  shaking  ray  poor  friend  by  the 
hand,  with  a  melancholy  foreboding  departed. 

It  was  not  until  the  end  of  August,  whilst  I  was 
busied  in  preparing  for  the  shooting  season,  that 
I  again  heard  of  Tom  Wunderlich.  I  was  thinking, 
one  morning  at  breakfast,  how  much  I  was  to  blame 
for  having  neglected  so  long  to  inquire  after  him, 
and  wondering  whether  he  was  now  well  enough  to 


THR    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  175 

bring  down  a  partridge,  when  a  letter  from  the  poor 
fellow  was  put  into  my  hands.  It  entreated  me, 
earnestly,  to  come  and  see  him,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Dorking,  where  he  had  taken  a  cottage ;  and,  as  his 
health  was  worse  than  ever,  he  hoped  nothing  would 
prevent  me  from  forthwith  seeing  him.  The  epis- 
tle, indeed,  was  written  in  a  strain  which  left  me 
one  mode  only  of  decision  :  and,  therefore,  ordering 
my  tilbury,  I  drove  over  to  Gloucester;  threw  my- 
self into  the  mail ;  and  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fol- 
lowing day,  found  myself  seated  in  the  little  par- 
lour of  my  friend's  cottage.  He  could  not  at  that 
moment  be  disturbed ;  but  John  informed  me,  that 
he  feared  his  master  was  now  ill  in  good  earnest; 
that  he  had  retained  nothing  on  his  stomach  for  four 
days  ;  was  delirious,  and  reduced  to  **  an  atomy." 
I  inquired  what  he  had  been  doing.  **  Ah!  Sir,  said 
John,  ''  you  know  how  fond  he  is  of  new  doctors : 
he  has  had  twenty  since  you  saw  him  ;  and  has  taken 
a  waggon-load  of  physic.  Lord,  Sir !  I  have  turned 
many  a  good  penny  on  the  empty  phials ;  but  it 
wont  do.  I  really  fear  that  the  poor  gentleman  is 
dying."  In  a  few  minutes  my  friend  was  ready  to 
see  me,  and  I  entered  his  bed-room. 

Alas!  what  a  change  !  a  young  man,  not  twenty- 
six,  metamorphosed    to    an   old,    infirm    invalid   of 


176  death's  doings. 

seventy ;  his  skin  yellow  and  shrivelled,  his  cheeks 
sunk,  and  his  wan  eyes  almost  lost  within  their 
bony  sockets.  He  could  not  rise  to  welcome  me ; 
but  stretched  out  his  skinny  hand,  and  with  a  hoarse 
yet  scarcely  audible  voice,  said  :  "  God  bless  you, 
my  dear  Dick  !  This  is  indeed  a  visit  of  true  friend- 
ship." I  took  hold  of  his  hand  and  sat  down  by 
him,  for  my  heart  was  too  full  to  speak.  He  per- 
ceived the  state  of  my  feelings ;  and  as  he  feebly  re- 
turned the  pressure  of  my  hand,  a  hectic  smile 
passed  over  his  countenance,  to  check  a  tear  which 
stood  in  the  corner  of  his  eye.  **  Ah  !  Dick !"  said 
he,  "  this  is  a  severe  trial.  After  finding  that  all 
the  regular  faculty  had  mistaken  my  case,  and  hav- 
ing at  length  found  a  remedy  for  it,  to  be  unable  to 
avail  myself  of  the  blessing."  Here  he  paused  to 
fetch  his  breath,  for  the  least  effort  exhausted  him ; 
and  although  be  was  up,  yet  he  had  scarcely  strength 
to  support  himself  in  the  chair.  I  ventured  to  in- 
quire of  what  remedy  he  spoke.  "  It  is,"  said  he, 
shuddering  as  he  uttered  the  words,  ''  a  live  spider ; 
and  I  have  the  most  implicit  faith  in  the  prescrip- 
tion :  but  I  cannot  overcome  my  aversion  to  the  in- 
sect. I  see  a  spider  in  every  article  of  food  I  swal- 
low; and  it,  consequently,  does  not  remain  a  mo- 
ment on  my  stomach.  Two  nights  ago  I  dreamt 
that  I  saw  a  spider,  with  a  body  the  size  and  exact 


THE    HYPOCHONDRIAC.  177 

resemblance  of  a  humau  skull,  and  legs  like  those  of 
a  skeleton.  It  crawled  up  to  my  mouth,  which  it 
was  about  to  enter;  and — "  Here  he  was  again 
forced  to  pause  to  draw  breath  :  a  cold  sweat  stood 
upon  his  forehead,  and  his  fleshless  hand  was  be- 
dewed with  an  icy  moisture.  He  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  and  looked  me  full  in  the  face ;  and,  then,  as 
if  recollecting  himself,  he  continued  his  detail. 
*'  This  spider  haunts  me  day  and  night,  so  con- 
stantly, that  I  am  perfectly  conscious  of  its  exist- 
ence ;  and  I  am  also  aware  that  it  is  the  identical 
one  which  1  must  swallow."  At  this  idea  h^  became 
so  much  convulsed,  that  I  called  aloud  for  John, 
and  ordered  him  instantly  to  fetch  a  doctor.  My 
poor  friend  seemed  insensible  to  the  sound  of  my 
voice  and  the  order  I  had  given.  I  felt  that  he  was 
making  an  ineffectual  effort  to  push  back  his  chair, 
and  I  saw  that  his  eye  was  following,  as  it  were, 
something  on  the  ground.  "  Do  you  not  see  there," 
said  he,  pointing  with  the  finger  of  his  right  hand, 
which  he  could  scarcely  raise  from  his  knee — 
"  there  !"  "  I  see  nothing,  my  dear  Wunderlich ! — 
it  is  your  imagination  which  is  thus  distorted  by 
your  disease."  He  drew  himself  up  with  horror: 
*'  No  !  no  !"  he  feebly  exclaimed,  ''  it  is  not  fancy  : 
— see,  it  has  crawled  up  my  leg :  there — there— it  is 

N 


178 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


on  my  heart — I  feel  it ;"  and  he  sunk  into  his  chair. 
I  thought  he  had  fainted ;  but  in  a  few  seconds,  he 
gave  a  convulsive  sob;  which  was  succeeded  by 
another  at  an  equal  distance  of  time :  these  were 
then  followed  by  a  hissing,  expiratory  sound ;  his 
limbs  became  powerless,  and  he  would  have  fallen 
on  the  floor,  if  I  had  not  supported  him  in  the  chair. 
The  doctor  entered  the  room :  but  it  was  only  to  con- 
firm my  apprehensions.  The  force  of  the  delusion 
had  overwhelmed  his  nervous  system;  and,  in  this 
doing.  Death,  in  his  triumph  over  mortality,  had  de- 
monstrated that  life  may  be  expelled  from  her  for- 
tress by  a  phantom  of  the  imagination. 


LIFER'S  ASSriRAXCE. 


179 


LIFE'S    ASSURANCE. 


'TwAS  a  wild  dream! — I  had  grown  old — 
Dim  was  my  aching  sight — and  cold 
The  blood  that  crept,  in  languid  course. 
Through  each  dried  vein.     Tired  Nature's  force 
Was  spent ;  yet,  yet  I  longed  to  live — 
To  mingle  in  earth's  crowd — to  give 
Another  sigh,  another  tear. 
To  those  who  were  by  kindred  dear — 
To  those  my  heart  best  loved.     I  wept. 
In  the  dark  thought  that  Time  had  swept. 
Remorseless  many  a  blooming  flower. 
The  sunshine  of  my  spirit's  hour 
Of  happiness,  away!— Alone 
I  wandered  forth :  no  soothing  tone — 
No  blessing  breathed,  in  accents  dear — 
No  "  Speed  thee,  Heaven !"  to  charm  and  cheer- 
Was  mine.     I  came — and  went ;  a  sigh 
Hailed  me  with  its  sad  minstrelsy ; 
n2 


180  death's  doings. 

Shrieks  of  despair  the  rude  gale  swelled. 
And  demons  of  the  night-storm  yelled. 
At  my  departure. —  Could  it  be — 
She,  the  beloved  one  ! — where  was  she? 

Ha !  'twas  a  sudden  flash  !  that  spire, 

Seen  through  the  lightning's  lurid  fire. 

Had  met  my  gaze  before  !     Deep,  deep. 

In  Memory's  page,  awake,  asleep. 

It  dwelt  in  sacred  vividness. 

Through  weal,  through  woe,  my  soul  to  blesSo 

Mahy  ! — My  vows  ! — The  bright,  bright  ray 

That  shone  upon  our  favoured  day — 

The  joyous  peal  that  on  our  ear 

Rang  its  glad  changes,  full  and  clear — 

The  words  that,  'neath  that  sacred  shrine. 

Proclaimed  thee  mme—for  ever  mine  !— 

Yet  sweetly  haunted  me, — when,  lo  ! 

A  change  came  o'er  my  dream  of  woe  ! 

It  was  a  rapid,  sudden  change. 

To  darkness — mist— moonlight — a  range 

Of  mountains  in  the  distance;  then, 

A  desert  heath,  from  press  of  men 

Removed ;  and  then,  a  fitful  sky 

Of  battling  clouds — of  anarchy — 


life's  assurance.  181 

From  which  the  moon,  with  sullen  ray. 
Looked  down  on  mortal  man's  decay. 
The  place  of  tombs  was  frowning  there  : 
Beneath  that  beam,  so  coldly  fair. 
The  bones  of  beauty,  youth,  and  age. 
Were  bleaching.     Winter's  fiercest  rage. 
And  summer's  gale — the  breeze,  the  blast — 
O'er  that  lone  scene  unheeded  passed, 
Nor  waked  the  sleepers. 

Midnight  dews — 
Damp  graves — and  night's  pale  flowers,  diffuse 
A  chilling  sadness. — Hark  !     What  sound 
Is  that  from  yonder  humble  mound 
Of  ungrassed  earth? — Poor  Fido  here? 
Man's  fond  unfailing  friend,  whose  fear. 
Whose  hope,  joy,  sorrow,  peace,  and  love. 
Dwell  in  his  master's  eye  !     Above 
The  world's  cold  Janus-smile  I  greet 
Thy  honest  welcome  at  my  feet ! 

What  means  that  look — that  piteous  moan  ? 
Ah,  'tis  a  recent  grave !     The  stone — 
Sad  land-mark,  reared  by  hands  of  earth 
O'er  the  last  home  of  buried  worth— 


182  death's  doings. 

The  name— the  story — may  reveal. 
Of  him  who  now  has  ceased  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  bliss — the  throb  of  woe — 
The  pang  young  minds  are  doomed  to  know. 
When  Disappointment's  withering  glance 
Dissolves  the  spell  of  fond  romance 
That  on  her  heart's  proud  beatings  hung. 
And  songs  of  hope  and  gladness  sung— 
Pagans  that  told  of  future  fame — 
The  heaven-born  lay — the  deathless  name ! 

I  read  : — "  Mary,  the  honoured  wife" — 
Mary  ! — my  w  orshipped  love !  the  life 

Of  life  !    My  Mary — art  thou  gone  ? 

***** 

Another  change. — Lo,  now  there  shone 
A  glorious  sun  in  Heaven  ;— and  yet 
The  yew-tree's  sable  pall  was  wet 
With  tears  of  night; — and  yet  the  mound — 
Not  grassless  now,  but  osier-bound — 
Was  there  ; — and  still  the  moaning  gale 
Sighed  o'er  that  stone — that  tribute  frail. 
But  time  had  dimmed  its  freshness — moss 
Crept  o'er  the  words  that  spoke  the  loss 
My  widowed  soul  had  known. — Beneath 
A  rank  and  deadly  nightshade  wreath 


life's  assurance.  183 

These  broken  lines  I  read  : — "  Here  sleeps 

Her  husband" — "  Life's  Assurance" — "  weeps" — 

"  In  anguish  weeps." 

The  vision  fled — 
I  was  no  more  amongst  the  dead — 
The  world's  swift  stream — the  rushing  throng- 
Carried  me  with  its  tide  along. 
Like  a  seared  leaf  that  yet  lives  on. 
When  all  its  kindred  leaves  are  gone. — 
Strange,  that  amidst  the  ceaseless  strife. 
Though  joy  was  dead,  I  longed  for  life  ! 
Those  words — those  words — that  vision  still 
Haunted  my  heart  and  brain.     The  will. 
Without  the  power  to  live,  was  mine  ! 
O,  for  some  voice — some  voice  divine — 
To  whisper  to  my  secret  ear, 
"  Life —Life's  Assurance — waits  thee  Here  !" 

That  instant,  smiling  through  the  storm. 
My  mental  glance  descried  a  form. 
Attired  in  robes  of  dazzling  white. 
With  lip  of  rose,  and  eye  of  light. 
That  lip — that  eye — had  blessed  my  gaze 
In  other,  brighter,  happier  days — 
When  love  was  warm,  when  life  was  new, 
And  years  like  minutes  swiftly  flew  ! 


184  death's  doings. 

In  her  white  hand  a  cup  she  bore — 

The  cup  I  quafl'ed  in  days  of  yore. 

'Twas  Hope — and  thus  she  spake  : — "  O,  drink  ! 

And  though  upon  the  gloomy  brink 

Of  the  dark  grave,  yet  thou  shalt  live — 

The  draught  shall  Life's  Assurance  give  !" 

Life  !     Life  !—0,  magic  words,  whose  power 
Wrought  on  my  heart  in  that  wild  hour 
Of  visioned  woe  ! — I  drained  the  bowl — 
That  nectar  of  a  fainting  soul ! 
Would  gracious  Heaven  my  days  prolong  ? 
Yes  !  for  methought  my  limbs  grew  strong  ; 
My  breast  no  longer  owned  despair, 
For  Hope — the  syren  Hope — was  there! 

I  gazed  around — what  words  were  those  ? 
What  mansion  that  so  stately  rose  ? 
Ha  !  "  Life's  Assurance  !"— Breathe  I  yet ! 
I  rushed  within  the  gate — I  met 
The  fleshless  form — the  orbless  eye— 
The  breast  without  a  heart— a  sigh — 
That  man's  worst  foe  declared  !     Around — 
Huge  folios — bags  of  gold — embrowned 
With  dust  of  time  :— Was  gold  the  price 
Of  earth's  still  longed-for  Paradise  ? 


life's  assurance.  185 

"  Ah  !  give  me  years  of  vigour — health— 
And  take,  O,  take  my  sordid  wealth  !" 

The  spectre  grimly  smiled,  and  said : 

"  Thou  fool — go,  rest  thee  with  the  dead  ! 

Behold  yon  feeble  withered  crone — 

Like  thee,  she'd  breathe,  a  thriftless  drone — 

Like  thee,  she'd  live  o'er  life  again. 

Through  years  of  feverish  grief  and  pain. 

To-morrow,  she  must  meet  her  doom — 

To-morrow,  rest  within  the  tomb  ! 

"  Thy  days  are  numbered,  too.     Away  ! 

Thy  mother  earth  now  chides  thy  stay  ! 

Go — and,  within  her  silent  home. 

Await  the  life — the  life  to  come  !" 

With  gaunt  and  outstretched  arm  he  gave 

A  scroll — my  passport  to  the  grave. 

I  shrank,  and  read  with  gasping  breath — 

"  Thy  Life's  Assurance  is  alone  through  Death  !" 

T.  H. 


186 


THE  ASSURANCE  OFFICE. 


"  I'll  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate." — S/iakspeare. 


To  persons  ignorant  of  commercial  and  financial 
mysteries,  the  notion  of  insuring  life  seems  a  strange 
one.  How  a  house  or  a  ship  may  be  insured  is 
easily  comprehended;  for  the  first  may  probably 
never  be  burnt,  nor  the  second  wrecked.  But  man 
must,  at  some  time  or  other,  die ;  and  yet,  against 
death,  not  only  the  young  and  vigorous,  but  the  aged 
and  valetudinary,  find  no  difficulty  in  obtaining,  on 
various  conditions,  what  is  technically  called  a  po- 
licy of  insurance.  Is  it  not  rather  a  sentence  of  ex- 
ecution, the  term  of  which  is  not  precisely  defined  ? 

Slanderers  of  human  nature  deny  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  friendship.  Even  the  less  misan- 
thropic consider  themselves  remarkably  fortunate  if 
they  possess  one  true  friend.  Shall  I  inform  you 
how  you  may  make  yourself  certain  of  having  at 
least  eight  staunch  hearty  friends,  who  will  feel  the 


THE  ASSURANCE  OFFICE.  187 

greatest  interest  in  you  during  the  whole  course  of 
your  existence?  Go,  and  insure  your  life,  for  a 
good  round  sum,  at  the  office  of  one  of  the  assurance 
companies.  From  the  very  moment  of  your  doing 
so,  the  directors  of  that  company  will  become  your 
warm  and  sincere  friends;  friends,  whom  no  neglect 
of  yours,  except  neglecting  to  pay  your  annual  pre- 
mium, can  alienate.  The  "  how  d'ye  do?"  of  other 
people  is  merely  the  conventional  phrase  by  which 
conversation  is  commenced,  but  with  the  gentlemen 
to  whom  I  allude  it  is  a  bond-fide  inquiry.  To  them 
your  health  is  an  object  of  constant  solicitude. 
They  watch  with  anxious  sympathy  the  expression 
of  your  countenance ;  exult  when  your  eye  sparkles 
with  vivacity,  and  are  depressed  when  your  cheek  is 
invaded  by  "  the  pale  cast"  of  sickness.  And  when 
at  length  the  awful  moment  shall  arrive, — 

"  For  come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fate," — 

that  is  to  terminate  your  earthly  career,  their  grief  at 
your  loss  will  be  unmingled  with  the  slightest  hy- 
pocrisy. Why  ?  The  event  which  puts  your  near- 
est connexions  in  possession  of  twenty  thousand 
pounds,  takes  exactly  the  same  sum  out  of  the 
pockets  of  these  gentlemen.  Yes,  ray  dear  madam  ; 
notwithstanding  what  you  hasten  to  tell  me  about 


188  death's  doings. 

*'  the  emotions  of  conjugal  affection,"  and  *'  the 
tears  of  filial  sensibility,"  I  maintain  that  the  most 
inconsolable  mourners  over  a  man's  grave  are  the  di- 
rectors of  the  company  by  whom  his  life  has  been 
insured. 

There  is  no  rule,  however,  without  an  exception. 
Among  the  conditions  on  which  a  policy  of  life  as- 
surance is  granted,  is  generally  one,  which  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  describe  in  terms  of  sufficient  delicacy.  The 
benefits  of  the  policy  are  withheld  from  that  particu- 
lar casualty  to  which  a  want  of  due  regard  for  the 
lives  and  property  of  others  may  unhappily  subject 
any  man.  In  plain  English,  the  insurance  com- 
pany declare  that  if  the  person  insured  should  be 
hanged,  they  will  be  hanged  if  they  pay  a  farthing  to 
his  heirs,  executors,  administrators,  and  assigns. 
He  and  the  policy  drop  together.  It  is  clear  there- 
fore that  this  unamiable  reservation  is  likely  to  pro- 
duce a  little  deviation  from  the  otherwise  uniformly 
warm  tone  of  friendship  to  which  I  have  been  ad- 
verting. In  fact,  it  must  create  an  anomaly  of  feel- 
ing rather  curious.  "  My  dear  sir,  I  have  the  high- 
est regard  for  you,  and  put  up  daily  prayers  for  your 
health  and  prosperity ;  I  am  delighted  at  the  ruddi- 
ness of  your  complexion,  and  the  firmness  of  your 


THE  ASSURANCE  OFFICE.  189 

step ; — but  it  would  give  me  infinite  pleasure  to  hear 
of  your  making  an  exhibition,  about  eight  o'clock 
one  of  these  fine  mornings,  before  the  Debtors' 
Door,  Newgate." — Such  is  not  exactly  the  address 
one  would  wish  from  one's  friends. 

It  has  puzzled  me  for  the  last  half-hour,  and  if 
yon,  my  gentle  reader,  are  not  clearer-headed  than  I 
am,  it  will  puzzle  you  for  the  next,  to  determine 
whether  this  awkward  proviso  be  or  be  not  advan- 
tageous to  the  interests  of  morality.  They  say, 
"  and  I  believe  the  tale,"  that  the  love  of  money  is  a 
great  temptation  to  crime.  But  here  the  love  of 
money  is  a  great  temptation  to  abstinence  from 
crime.  We  may  be  tolerably  certain  that  a  person 
of  any  nous,  who  has  insured  his  life  at  a  life-insu- 
rance office,  will  take  care  not  to  be  easily  betrayed 
into  the  commission  of  burglary  or  murder ;  were  it 
only  that  he  would  be  ashamed  of  showing  himself 
so  deficient  in  worldly  knowledge. — On  the  other 
hand,  is  that  altogether  fair  towards  the  insurance 
company  ?  Ought  a  humane  and  honourable  man 
to  check  his  evil  propensities,  because  their  indul- 
gence would  be  beneficial  to  a  certain  portion  of  his 
fellow-creatures  ?  Is  it  honest  on  his  part  to  do  all 
he  can  by  his  good  conduct  to  disappoint  calcula- 


190  death's  doings. 

tions  and  expectations  founded  on  a  just  view  of 
the  degravity  of  human  nature  ?  These  ate  ques- 
tions which  I  strongly  recommend  for  discussion  at 
the  Westminster  debating-club. 

After  all,  and  notwithstanding  my  nice  scruples, 
I  believe  it  must  be  conceded  that  the  institution  of 
these  societies  has  been  productive  of  great  good. 
By  a  return  which  was  laid  on  the  table  of  the  House 
of  Commons  during  the  last  session  of  Parliament, 
it  appears  that  the  number  of  stamps  issued  for  po- 
licies of  life  assurance,  has  more  than  doubled  during 
the  last  ten  years.  After  making  every  proper  al- 
lowance for  the  increase  of  population,  this  fact  is  a 
strong  proof  of  the  growth  of  kind  and  moral  habits. 
That  man  cannot  be  a  very  worthless  member  of  the 
community,  whose  natural  affection  induces  him  to 
deny  himself  all,  or  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life,  and 
in  some  cases  even  to  abridge  what  the  self-indul- 
gent consider  its  absolute  necessaries,  in  order  that, 
when  he  is  cold  in  the  grave,  his  wife,  or  his 
children,  may  be  placed  in  circumstances  of  ease 
and  independence. 

W.  H.  W. 


THE  AHTIQUAIOr^ 


191 


THE    ANTIQUARY. 


There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors." 

Decker's  Old  Fortwtatus. 


The  Antiquary,  wrapt  in  busy  dreams 
Of  old  world  things,  the  dead  alive  he  seems, — 
The  living  record  of  the  time  gone  by, — 
The  chronicle  of  the  first  century : 
His  eye  faint  glimmering  'neath  o'erhanging  brow. 
Bespeaks  entire  forgetfulness  of  "  now :" 
To  modern  lore  he  makes  but  small  pretence. 
And  drops  the  present  for  the  preterite  tense. 
Ask  of  his  garb  ? — He  wears  the  same  cut  coat 
Dry  den  might  wear  when  Dry  den  lived  and  wrote. 
His  politics  ? — To  state  and  country  true  ; 
Beyond,  he  knows  nor  cares  no  more  than  you. 
His  mansion's  chequered  walls  attract  the  eye. 
And  round  his  roof  ancestral  ravens  fly. 
Within — but  none  save  he  that  now  may  know 
The  wealth  of  that  prodigious  raree-show  ; 
There  in  his  day-dreams,  blest,  he  musing  sits. 
And  roams  o'er  every  by-gone  age  by  fits ; 


192  death's  doings. 

Pores  o'er  the  forms  heraldic  labours  tend. 
Or  pens  a  prosing  letter  to  a  friend : 
For  Anno  Domini  writes  A.  U.  C, 
Or  heads  his  letter  with  a  kind  S.  D. 
In  fancy  o'er  the  Via  Sacra  walks, 
Or  with  a  Pliny  or  a  Strabo  talks  ; 
At  Horace'  Villa  culls  his  early  beans. 
Or  in  Etruscan  kettles  boils  his  greens. 

With  rising  pride  he  views  his  swelling  store 
Of  wonders  never  mortal  owned  before  ; 
Strange  relics  of  all  tribes  that  spoke  or  speak — 
Assyrian,  Turkish,  Jewish,  Roman,  Greek. 
Busts,  statues,  images,  involved  in  dust. 
Swords,  helmets,  javelins,  precious  in  their  rust ; 
Black-letter  books,  some  grass  from  Trojan's  park. 
An  ephod,  and  a  piece  of  Noah's  ark. 
Whatever  useless  rarity  you  name 
Of  ancient  date,  look  here,  you  find  the  same  : 
These  he  collects,  these  gathers  night  and  day, — 
For  these,  pounds,  shillings,  pence,  he  flings  away ; 
And  though  reputed  in  his  senses  sound. 
He  for  a  Roman  penny  gives  a  pound. 
But  say — what  prize,  what  treasure  meets  his  sight 
Unseen  before — what  promise  of  delight? 


THE  ANTIQUARY.  193 

A  shield  of  price  !  with  rust  corrosive  traced. 

The  true  cerugo  of  an  antique  taste. 

"  And  whence/'  he  cries,  "  the  gift  ?      What  gen'- 

rous  friend 
Has  fate  propitious  tempted  this  to  send  ? 
Say,  say  from  whom  ?''  his  rapture  stays  his  breath  ; 
Brief  the  reply — "  From  me  it  comes,"  quoth  Death. 
He  starts — he  sees  upon  the  shield  his  name. 
And  feels  a  tremour  stealing  through  his  frame ; 
Beholds  the  grinning  messenger  with  fear. 
And  grieves  to  find  Antiquity  too  near; 
He  drops  the  shield  with  fearful  import  rife, 
And  quits  at  once  his  treasures  and  his  life. 

Cheviot  Tichburn. 


194 


ANTIQUARIAN    RESEARCHES. 


A  plague,"  says  Time  to  Thomas  Hearae, 
Whatever  I  forget  you  learn." 


Our  poetical  contributor  has  taken  a  view  of  the 
Antiquary  under  the  idea  of  what  Doctor  Johnson 
calls  **  Curiosity  in  Excess,"  where  straws  and  trifles 
occupy  that  time  which  might  be  more  seriously  or 
advantageously  employed.  But  this  spirit  of  ima- 
gination may  be  pardoned  in  a  stranger  to  the  plea- 
sures of  virtu,  when  one  of  its  most  ardent  votaries 
indulged  in  the  ridicule  of  a  profession  he  both  fol- 
lowed and  admired.  But  Grose,  while  caricaturing 
pretensions  to  connoisseurship,  did  not  consider  that 
a  handle  might  be  made  of  this  satire  to  draw  down 
the  contempt  of  some,  ignorant  of  the  pleasure  and 
advantage  of  antiquarian  research  ;  in  which  there 
is  more  than  is  dreamt  of,  in  the  philosophy  of  many, 
who  wonder  that  men  should  be  found  to  puzzle 
themselves  about  the  past,  when  there  is  so  much  to 
be  done  with  the  present.* 

*  Under  the  head  Miscellanea  Critica  in  Blackwood's  Maga- 
ziiie  for  September,  1826,  is  an  article  which  prominently  introduces 


ANTIQUARIAN  RESEARCHES.  195 

The  labours  of  the  Antiquary  serve  to  trace  things 
up  to  their  source,— to  throw  light  upon  the  old  for 
the  improvement  of  the  new, — to  show  the  advance 


the  subject  we  are  now  attempting  to  illustrate,  and  from  which  we  beg 
to  be  allowed  to  glean  a  few  sentences.  It  thus  begins : — "  One  use 
of  Poetry  is  to  nurse  in  us  the  feeling  of  the  Beautiful.  Another, 
among  many  others,  to  cherish,  or  produce,  the  love  o/" Antiquity." 
After  showing  how  "  essentially  poetical"  are  the  manners  and  trans- 
actions of  past  ages,  and  what  a  high-wrought  interest  the  Poet  feels  in 
the  "  remembrance  of  long-buried  generations  of  our  kind,"  the  writer 
thus  proceeds : — 

"  If  there  be  in  the  Past,  as  such,  the  natural  aptitude  here  supposed 
for  affecting  the  Imagination,  the  affectio7i  will  be  enhanced  by  inter- 
tercourse  with  that  Art,  which  not  only  especially  awakens  this  Fa- 
culty,— but  greatly  delights  to  lay  open,  and  draw  forth,  these  particu- 
lar sources  of  its  pleasure."  And  how  this  is  effected.  Me  learn  from 
the  following  sensible  observations : — "  In  the  extension  of  our  sym- 
pathy with  human  kind,  taking  in  that  portion  which  may  least  require 
it,  indeed,  the  dead — but,  further,  those  living,  in  whom  the  old  times 
imaged,  live  yet: — In  the  wider  field  put  under  the  dominion  of 
thought ;  since  that  which  we  learn  to  love  we  then  first  understand : — 
In  the  solemnity  added  to  our  meditations  on  man's  nature : — In  lof- 
tier, calmer,  juster  views  of  human  affairs: — In  increased  love  of  our 
country,  itself  ancient : — Lastly — among  a  high-cultivated  people  a 
consideration  of  no  slight  importance — In  the  ampler  materials  placed 
under  the  hand  of  those  inventive,  beautiful  Arts,  which  are  much  of 
the  brightness,  and  give  much  of  the  happiness,  of  distinguished  civili- 
zation : — if  it  may  not  seem  too  much  arguing  in  a  circle,  to  h:ay  that 
Poetry  is  useful,  by  enlarging  its  own  powers. —  What  is  this  Love  of 
Antiquity  ?  Not  the  coldly-curious  taste,  sometimes  seen,  of  re- 
search into  parts  of  knowledge  from  most  minds  hid  by  rareness,  or 
separated  by  want  of  evident,  common,  compelling  interest, — but  a 
feeling  placed  half  in  imagination,  half  in  our  social  nature,  by  which 
we  accept  our  union  of  brotherhood  with  our  kind,  take  concern  in 
them,  most  distantly  divided  from  us  by  time,  and  confess  a  title  to 

o2 


196  death's  doings. 

in  some,  and  the  failure  of  others  towards  that  per- 
fection, which  is  the  ultimate  aim  of  art,  science, 
and  literature. 

There  is,  besides  what  belongs  to  the  useful  and 
important  in  antiquarian  researches,  an  innocent 
pleasure  and  a  harmless  gratification,  that  perhaps 
more  exclusively  belong  to  the  collector  of  antiqui- 
ties than  to  most  other  pursuits. 

By  the  aid  of  his  treasures,  he  can  call  up  past 
ages,  and  as  it  were  make  them  refund  the  riches 
they  had  secreted.  His  minerals,  his  fossils,  and 
his  gems,  discover  in  part  the  organization  of  the 
material  world ;  his  coins  and  medals  connect  many 
links  in  the  chain  of  history  that  would  otherwise  be 
lost.  His  ambition  raises  no  armies  to  disturb  the 
peace  or  destroy  the  happiness  of  mankind ;  his  tri- 
umphs are  not  sprinkled  with  blood,  nor  is  his  path 
to  fame  washed  with  the  tears  of  the  widow  or  the 
orphan :  a  more  perfect  tome,  a  more  rare  example 

affect  us,  in  their  memory,  by  whatever  shapes  of  matter  it  may  be 
borne. 

"  Men,  for  the  most  part,  love  the  Present.  The  joy  given  them  in 
the  consciousness  of  their  living  being,  is  of  the  hour,  the  moment : 
which  it  fills  with  animating,  sparkling,  fires.  But  the  urn  of  the 
Past  they  can  believe  to  contain  only  extinct  and  cold  ashes, — misjudg- 
ing,— nor  aware  how  *  even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires.'  " 


ANTIQUARIAN  RESEARCHES.  197 

of  virtu  than  has  yet  been  acquired  fills  him  with 
delight ;  the  flame  of  his  ambition  is  fed  on  the 
hopes  of  obtaining  some  antique  lamp  or  other  curi- 
osity ;  and  while  the  thoughts  of  the  greater  part  of 
mankind  are  bent  on  the  pursuit  of  honours  or 
wealth,  his  may  be  more  quietly  engaged  in  admiring 
the  beauties  of  an  Etruscan  vase,  or  commenting  on 
the  form  and  use  of  a  lachrymatory  : 

"  Behold  I  have  put  thy  tears  in  my  bottle." 

Here  a  passage  of  scripture  is  explained, — there 
a  mine  of  inquiry  is  sprung,  and  the  ore  of  the  intel- 
ligent and  useful  revealed. 

Antiquarian  researches  are  like  vessels  of  disco- 
very,— sometimes  fraught  with  the  marvellous,  at 
other  times  laden  with  cargoes  of  the  richest  mate- 
rials, the  produce  of  every  clime  and  of  every  shore ; 
or  if  these  fail,  there  is  matter  at  hand  which,  though 
not  of  so  costly  a  quality,  may  by  an  alchymy  (well 
known  to  the  initiated)  be  converted  into  a  sub- 
stance more  valuable  than  intrinsically  belonged  to 
it.  Such  are  the  legendary  tales  of  the  olden  time, 
with  their  quaint  language  or  grotesque  ornaments  ; 
beneath  whose  homely  features  and  rude  address  are 
often  concealed  some  important  lesson,  some  stroke 
of  satire  or  shrewd  research ;  where,  if  the  laugh  is 


198  death's  doings. 

raised,  it  is  at  the  expense  of  vice  or  folly  ;  or  if  the 
bells  are  jingled,  it  is  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining 
attention  to  some  moral  instruction. 

It  is  true,  conjecture  and  fancy  will  mix  them- 
selves up  with  the  solid  materials,  or  in  some  in- 
stances become  substitutes  for  the  true  meaning; 
but  then  they  are  often  so  ingenious  and  inventive, 
that  the  resemblance  is  readily  admitted,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  Scotch  novels,  where  history  and  fiction 
so  imperceptibly  unite,  that  they  cannot  easily  be 
separated;  though  what  may  be  lost  by  the  absence 
of  the  one,  is  gained  by  the  skill  displayed  and  the 
amusement  found  in  the  other. 

Our  design  goes  simply  to  show  that  the  Anti- 
quary may  be  surprised  by  Death  in  the  midst  of  his 
treasured  relics  ;  and  that,  while  recording  the  won- 
ders of  antiquity,  a  monumental  record  may  be  pre- 
paring for  himself.  Not  that  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  introduce  Death  as  a  consequence  of 
antiquarian  researches.  He  might  inoculate  him- 
self with  the  canker  by  licking  a  coin,  or  be  poisoned 
in  tasting  the  liquors  used  in  the  preserving  of  cer- 
tain bodies ;  he  might  die  of  chagrin,  when  missing 
the  purchase  of  a  unique  or  a  non-descript.  There 
are  other  instances  in  which,  like  Jonathan  Oldbiick, 


ANTIQUARIAN  RESEARCHES.  199 

the  Antiquary's  temper  and  frame,  even,  might  re- 
ceive a  shock,  when  told  that  his  antique  of  400 
years  had  by  some  awkward  discovery  been  deprived 
of  an  0.  But  Antiquaries  do  not  die  of  chagrin, — 
whether  there  is  any  "  cause  in  nature,"  or  in  the 
study  of  virtu,  that  fortifies  the  heart  and  keeps  the 
brain  cool,  in  the  disappointed  views,  the  accidents, 
or  mistakes  that  attend  these  pursuits,  is  not  per- 
haps known  or  has  not  become  an  object  of  inquiry. 
True  it  is,  there  are  men  of  such  phlegm,  or  of  such 
philosophy,  as  to  bear  up  against  mortifications  that 
would  annihilate  persons  of  more  morbid  sensibili- 
ties ;  nor  are  there  wanting  instances  in  which  the 
most  fatal  efi'ects  have  followed  the  destruction,  ei- 
ther designed  or  accidental,  of  a  favourite  plan. 
Madame  Sevign6  relates  a  melancholy  instance  of 
this  keen  and  desperate  sensibility,  as  it  may  be 
called,  where  the  maitre-d'hote  of  a  French  noble- 
man fell  upon  his  sword  and  expired,  because  the 
roti  was  ill  served  or  ill  cooked.  After  all,  may  it 
not  be  the  number  and  variety  of  his  resources  which 
give  to  the  Antiquary's  mind  a  nerve,  or  elasticity, 
that  shall  cause  him  to  recover  from  a  blow  or  a 
fall  by  which  another  man  would  be  stunned  or 
killed  outright.  Indeed,  had  it  been  possible  for  an 
Antiquary  to  have  died  of  chagrin,  it  must  have  oc- 


200  death's  doings. 

curred  in  the  case  below  cited,*  which  we  have  ex- 
tracted from  the  European  Magazine  for  March,  1790, 

*  Archaeological  Anecdote,  1789. — "  We  hear,  that  a  valua- 
ble morsel  of  antiquity,  containing  a  Saxon  inscription,  commemorative 
of  particulars  attending  the  death  of  Hardi/knute,  has  been  discovered 
among  the  foundations  of  his  Palace  in  Kennington  Lane.  This  me- 
morial is  in  Saxon  characters,  sculptured  on  white  marble,  which, 
though  discoloured  by  damps,  is  still  in  high  and  excellent  preser- 
vation. 

"  The  curiosity  before  us,  but  for  an  accident,  might  have  returned 
to  its  former  obscurity.  An  able  and  intelligent  draughtsman  luckily 
saw  it  in  a  window  at  a  cutler's  shop  on  the  Surrey  side  of  Blackfriars 
Bridge.  It  was  subsequently  examined  and  authenticated  by  the 
learned  Director  of  the  Antiquary  Society  j  and  by  him,  or  his 
order,  was  copied  and  sent  (no  beautiful  detrition,  conciliating  freckle, 
or  picturesque  fissure,  omitted)  to  the  Reverend  and  very  acute  Mr. 
Samuel  Pegge.  He  expeditiously  furnished  an  ample  comment  upon 
it,  which  was  lately  read,  to  the  general  improvement  of  its  auditors,  in 
Somerset  Place,  when  formal  thanks  were  unanimously  voted  for  so 
erudite  a  communication.  Such,  indeed,  was  the  effect  of  this  dis- 
course, that  the  personages  present  at  its  recital  (as  Lydgate  observes 
of  the  fortunate  Trojans  who  beheld  the  carbuncle  that  illuminated  the 
Hall  of  King  Priamus) 

' mervayled  ech  one, 

Soche  lyghte  ysprang  out  of  thylk  stone.' 

"  The  inscription  aforesaid  is  expressed  with  that  simple  but  majestic 
brevity  which  marks  the  performances  of  ancient  times.  It  states,  in 
unaffected  terms,  that  Hardijknute,  after  drenching  himself  with  a  horn 
of  wine,  stared  about  him,  and  died.  Our  language,  however,  will  not 
do  complete  justice  to  those  harmonious  and  significant  words,  ymbsta- 
rud  (or,  as  it  should  rather  have  been  written — starude)  and  swelt. — 
The  sculpture  of  the  fatal  horn  itself,  decorated  with  the  Danish  raven, 
affords  sufficient  room  for  belief  that  the  imitative  arts,  even  at  (hat 
early  period  [1042],  were  not  unsuccessfully  cultivated  in  England. — 
The  public  is  now  waiting,  with  every  mark  of  impatience,  for  a  plate 


ANTIQUARIAN   RESEARCHES.  201 

where  a  learned  professor  is  described  as  having 
been  betrayed  by  a  hoax  into  a  situation  the  most 

representing  this  precious  marble,  as  well  for  a  perusal  of  Mr.  Pegge's 
illustration  of  it,  in  the  next  volume  of  the  Society's  ArchEeological 
Collections. 

"  But,  notwithstanding  this  venerable  relic  has  passed  the  ordeal  of 
such  well-instructed  and  microscopic  eyes,  a  set  of  ridiculous  and  shal- 
low critics  are  to  be  met  with,  who  either  ignorantly  or  maliciously  pro- 
noimce  the  whole  inscription,  &c.  to  be  the  forgery  of  some  modern 
wag.  They  say,  that  it  was  designedly  left  with  the  cutler,  as  a  trap  for 
a  certain  antiquary,  who  deliberately  and  obligingly  walked  into  it : — 
that  its  exhibition  was  accompanied  with  a  specious  request  from  its 
clandestine  owner,  that  he  might  be  assisted  by  the  learned,  in  ascer- 
taining the  quality  of  the  stone,  and  the  true  import  of  the  mystic  cha- 
racters upon  it ;  though  he  perfectly  knew  that  the  substance  contain- 
ing these  letters,  &c.  was  no  other  than  a  bit  of  broken  chimney-piece, 
Saxonified  by  himself  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty-nine, — The  same  malignant  junto  likewise  disseminate  a  report, 
that  the  capitals  in  question  are  not  engraved,  but  corroded  by  aqua- 
fortis, a  chymical  invention  posterior  to  the  reign  of  Hardi/knute. 
Nay,  to  such  extremes  do  real  or  affected  prejudices  against  a  genuine 
piece  of  Saxon  literature  transport  these  scoffers,  that  they  venture  to  as- 
sert that  all  the  captivating  discolourations  on  its  surface  are  the  mere 
effects  of  repeated  urinary  sprinkles,  which,  by  degrees,  induced  a  mel- 
low cast  of  antiquity  over  the  whole  tablet. — They  moreover  declare, 
that  ipse  dolifab7-icator  contrived  to  procure  admission  for  some  of  his 
associates,  on  the  very  evening  when  the  dissertation  of  Mr.  Pegge  was 
read  by  a  Pro-Secretary ;  and  that  these  accomplices  are  every  where 
describing  it  as  a  production  intentionally  jocular;  and  add,  that  it  was 
as  unsuspectuagly  listened  to  by  the  Society,  as  was  the  perfonnance  of 
a  Dutch  translation  of  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb,  which  the  Burgomasters 
of  Amsterdam  received,  from  first  to  last,  with  that  profound  and  silent 
attention  which  becomes  an  enlightened  audience  at  a  deep  tragedy. 
— Lastly,  they  would  wantonly  persuade  their  hearers,  that  the  senior 
Secretary  (if  experiments  were  thought  needful  on  the  occasion)  most 
zealously  offered  to  drain  a  horn  of  equal  dimensions  with  that  of  Har- 
dy knute,  provided  it  were  first  replenished  with  ancient  and  sound 


202 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


mortifying  and  trying  to  the  temper  that  can  be  ima- 
gined. As,  from  the  distance  of  time,  and  the 
scarcity  of  the  work,  some  of  the  particulars  may 
not  be  unacceptable  to  the  reader,  and,  as  it  may 
also  serve  as  a  beacon  or  warning  voice  to  the  tyro 
in  virtu,  we  hope  to  be  excused  for  having  made  so 
long  an  extract.  R.  D. 

port,  such  as  he,  the  said  Secretarj',  had  often  quaifed  (though  with 
strict  moderation,  and  merely  to  wash  down  the  cobwebs  of  Archaeo- 
logy) on  Thursday  evenings,  at  the  Somerset  Cotfee-house,  in  the 
Strand. 

"  How  much  is  the  impertinent  levity  of  this  age  to  be  deplored  f 
Pity  it  is,  that  the  poems  of  Roxvley  and*  the  record  of  Hardy kiiute's 
death  were  destined  to  emerge  during  such  an  era  of  laughter,  scepti- 
cism, and  incredulity." 

The  tail-piece  here  subjoined  is  accurately  copied  from  a  print  in  the 
European  Magazine  for  March,  1790,  where  it  is  given  as  a  correct  re- 
presentation ol  the  "  venerable  relic." 


r — ^^7 


TME    CMAMFIOH. 


203 


DEATH  IN  '  THE  RING.'* 


Well  !  so  I've  *  floor'd'  these  '  fancy'  fighting-cocks. 

And  *  finish'd'  them  in  style  !     Presumptuous  fel- 
lows ! 
They  *  chafi"'d'  of  Science — and,  forsooth,  would  box 

With  one  whose  '  hits'  are  sure  to  touch  the  *  bel- 
lows !' 
Conceited  mortals !  thus  to  *  spar'  with  Death, 

Whose  fame's  almost  as  old  as  the  Creation ! — 
For  knock-down  blows,  which  take  away  the  breath, 

I've  ever  had  a  first-rate  reputation : 

*  Although  honourable  mention  has  been  made  of  this  poetical 
trifle  by  several  Reviewers,  in  their  notice  of  the  first  edition  of 
*  Death's  Doings,'  yet  some  few  there  are  who  have,  in  sober  seri- 
ousness, lamented  that  the  writer  should  have  lent  his  aid  in  giving 
currency  tojiash  !  We  certainly  thought  that  the  ironical  language  of 
the  concluding  note  sufficiently  disclosed  the  author's  real  opinion  of 
the  subject;  but  since  critics  have  mistaken  the  writer's  meaning,  it  is 
incumbent  on  us  to  state,  that  our  Contributor  is  a  very  antipugnacious 
character,  who  neither  visits  the  Fives'  Court,  nor  admires  the  jargon  of 
the  '  prize  ring,'  but  who,  notwithstanding,  kindly  consented  to  fur- 
nish the  artist  with  something  in  the  nature  of  a  characteristic  illus- 
tration of  his  plate  of*  The  Champion.' 


204  death's  doings. 

And  yet  these  heroes  of  the  science  fistic, — 

Poor  stupid  drones !  — 
Thinking  I  couldn't  '  come  it  pugilistic,' 
Threw  up  their  '  castors,'  stak'd  the  '  ready  bustle,' 
'  Peel'd,'  and  prepar'd  with  Death  to  have  a  tussle — 
As  though  their  flesh,  and  blood,  and  muscle. 

Were  proof  against  my  bones! 
They  talk  of  championship  ! — what  next,  I  wonder  ! 
Did  they  imagine  Death  would  e'er  '  knock  under?' 
Could  they,  in  fact,  suppose 
/  car'd  about  their  blows  ? 
I!  who  can  *  draw  the  claret'  when  I  please — 
*  Fib,'    or    '  cross-buttock'   'em,    or    close    their 
*  peepers  V 
I!  who  can  *  double  up'  the  '  swells'  with  ease. 
And  make  'em  senseless  as  the  seven  sleepers!* 

*  Whether  Death  here  alludes  to  the  seven  giants,  who,  lying 
down  to  sleep  on  Salisbury  Plain,  slept  *'  to  wake  no  more,"  as  an  old 
west-country  nursery  legend  so  truly  tells  j  or,  whether  the  simile  has 
reference  to  some  seven  animals  (the  doiTnouse,  &c.)  whose  torpid  ex- 
istence during  the  winter  months  has  given  them  the  appellation  of 
the  "  seven  sleepers,"  jye  pretend  not  to  determine.  That  there  should, 
however,  be  a  degree  of  mystery  attached  to  the  metaphor  will  by  no 
means  be  considered  a  poetical  defect  j  and  as  it  may  probably  induce 
certain  learned  commentators  to  discuss  the  question,  and  to  favour  the 
world  with  many  a  curious  hypothesis  in  eliciting  the  truth,  we  are 
right  glad,  for  the  sake  of  mankind  in  general,  that  Death  was  not 
more  communicative  on  the  subject. 

Shortly  after  the  appearance  of  the  first  edition,  a  correspondent,  for 


DEATH  IN  '  THE  RING.'  206 

Not  I,  indeed ; — and,  so  it  seems,  they  found, 

For  there  they  all  lie  sprawling  on  the  ground  : 
They'll  never  '  come  to  time'  again — no,  never — 

At  least,  not  here — 

For,  'twill  appear, 
When  I  their  business  do,  'tis  done  for  ever ! 


whose  opinions  we  have  no  slight  respect,  intimated  that  the  west- 
country  nursery  legend  above  mentioned  might,  in  all  probability, 
date  its  origin  from  the  *  seven  giant  sleepers'  who,  in  the  time  of  Dio- 
clesian,  were  laid  asleep,  but,  according  to  the  infallible  testunony  of 
the  Romish  Calendar,  where  a  festival  in  honour  of  the  event  may  be 
found,  awoke  again  after  the  lapse  of  300  years.  This  miracle,  he 
adds,  is  devoutly  believed  in  by  all  '  good'  Catholics,  and  the  festival 
still  commemorated  by  them. 

Another  correspondent  compliments  us  on  the  *  lucky  hit'  we  made 
in  naming  SaUsbury  Plain  as  the  place  where  the  '  giant  sleepers'  re- 
posed in  the  arms  of  Death,  and  refers  us  to  an  article  on  •  Stone- 
HENGE,'  written  by  Mr.  J.  F.  Pennie  (one  of  our  valued  Contribu- 
tors), and  inserted  in  the  Literary  Chronicle  of  January  6,  1827,  where 
not  only  are  divers  proofs  given  of  the  existence  of  giants  in  days  of 
yore,  but  the  most  substantial  evidence  of,  at  least,  one  giant's  bones  and 
weapons  having  been  dug  up  on  Salisbury  Plain.  The  subject  is  dis- 
cussed by  Mr.  Pennie  with  much  ingenuity,  and  we  shall  take  leave 
to  extract  that  portion  of  the  article  which  more  particularly  relates  to 
the  gigantic  remains  of  the  human  form  which  have  been  found  in 
this  country: — 

'  Why  may  not,  I  would  ask,  the  Phoenician  giants  (for  such,  if  we 
may  credit  the  historical  parts  of  the  Bible,  actually  did  exist  at  the  time 
of  the  invasion  of  Canaan,  by  Joshuah,  and  emigrated  into  far  distant 
countries  about  that  period,  as  is  evident  firom  inscriptions  found  at 
Tangiers,  and  other  places)  j  why  may  not  they,  or  some  of  their  race, 
have  erected  this  astonishing  temple  at  Stonehenge  ?     That  giants  of 


206  death's  doings. 

The  greatest  champions  that  the  world  e'er  saw. 
By  turns  have  bow'd  obedient  to  my  law. 

Look  back  at  History's  page, 

In  every  clime  and  age, 

vast  stature  once  dwelt  in  this  island,  is  no  lying  fable  of  Geoffry  of 
Monmouth,  and  other  still  more  ancient  authors.  We  have  indisput- 
able evidence  of  their  real  existence,  in  the  late  exhumation  of  an  im- 
mense human  skeleton,  at  Weston  Super  Mare,  a  small  island,  some 
time  since  purchased  by  Mr.  How,  of  Bristol,  for  the  purpose  of  con- 
structing on  it  hot  and  cold  baths. 

*  Also,  in  the  church-yard  of  Walton,  about  five  miles  from  Dork- 
ing, in  Surrey,  was  dug  up,  in  the  reign  of  Charles  IT,,  a  skeleton, 
which  measured  nine  feet  three  inches  in  length  ! 

*  At  Doward  Hills,  in  the  parish  of  Whitchurch,  not  far  from 
Rosse,  in  Herefordshire,  some  men  who  were  digging,  found  a  cavity, 
which  seenaed  to  have  been  arched  over,  and  in  it  a  human  skeleton, 
which  appeared  to  have  been  more  than  double  the  stature  of  the  tallest 
man  now^  known.  The  bones  were,  not  many  years  ago,  in  the  pos- 
session of  a  surgeon  at  Bristol. 

*  At  Corbridge,  near  Hexham,  in  Northumberland,  some  human 
bones  were  found  about  the  close  of  the  last  century,  of  so  prodigious  a 
size,  that  the  skeleton  to  which  they  belonged  must  have  been  seven 
yards  high,  the  thigh  bone  measuring  two  yards!  and  at  Ailmouth,  in 
the  same  county,  there  have  been  found  human  bones  of  so  prodigious 
a  size  as  those  at  Corbridge. 

'  Camden,  speaking  of  Godmanchester,  on  the  Ouse,  says,  •*  that  the 
bones  of  divers  men  dug  up  there,  proved  them  to  have  been  of  far 
greater  stature  than  is  credible  to  be  spoken  of  in  these  days." 

*  But  to  come  nearer  home,  in  point  of  locality  to  this  very  temple,  I 
shall  give  the  following  account  by  Leland,  from  the  Bibliotheca  Eliotae : 
— "  About  thirty  years  past,  I  myself  beynge  with  my  father,  Syr  Ry- 
charde  Elyot,'at  a  monisterye  of  the  regular  chanons,  called  Ivy  Churche, 
two  miles  from  the  city  of  Saresbyri,  [Salisiuri/']  behelde  the  bones 


DEATH  IN  'THE  RING.'  207 

You'll  find  I  '  mill'd'  the  mightiest  of  them  all ; 

No  matter  how  they  sparr'd. 

My  blows  were  sure  and  hard, 
And  when  I  threw  them,  fatal  was  their  fall. 
From  Alexander  down  to  Emperor  Nap, 
Whene'er  I  chose  to  give  the  rogues  a  slap. 
Not  one  could  parry  oflf  a  single  rap  ; — 

of  a  dead  man  very  depe  in  the  ground,  where  they  digged  stone, 
which  beynge  held  together,  were,  in  length,  fourteen  feel  ten  inches, 
whereof  one  of  the  teethe  my  father  had,  which  was  of  the  quantitee  of 
a  great  walnutte.  This  have  I  written,  because  some  men  will  believe 
nothing  that  is  out  of  the  compasse  of  their  own  knowledge.  And 
yet  some  of  them  presume  to  have  knowledge  above  any  other,  con- 
temnying  of  all  men  but  themselves,  and  such  as  they  favour." 

'  Giraldus  Cambrensis  says,  that  the  British  writers  called  this  tem- 
ple Corea  Gigantum,  and  said,  that  it  was  brought  from  the  remotest 
parts  of  Africa.  "Now,"  says  Aylett  Sammes,  "to  find  out  an  an- 
cient tradition  wrapt  up  in  ignorant  and  idle  tales,  why  may  not  those 
giants,  so  often  mentioned,  be  the  Phoenicians,  and  the  art  of  erecting 
those  stones,  instead  of  the  stones  themselves,  be  brought  from  the 
fathermost  parts  of  Africa,  the  known  habitations  of  the  Phoenicians  ?" 

'Again,  in  the  Universal  History,  vol.  19,  it  's  asserted,  that  in  one 
of  the  barrows  on  Salisbury  plain,  "  was  found  a  weapon  like  a  pole- 
axe,  which  weighed  twenty  pounds,  and  given  to  Colonel  Wyndham." 
Now  this  huge  instrument  could  not  possibly  have  been  wielded  in 
battle  but  by  the  hand  of  a  giant,  possessed  of  amazing  strength.' 

Thus  it  will  appear  we  were  quite  right  when  we  hazarded  an  opi- 
nion that  Death's  allusion  to  the  Seven  Sleepers  would  lead  to  a  discus- 
sion of  the  question,  and  elicit  facts  which  the  great  Champion  him- 
self had  probably  quite  forgotten. 


208  death's  doings. 

No,  no  !— nor  had  they  each  a  thousand  lives. 
Could  they  have  stood  against  my  rattling  *  bunch  of 
fives !'  * 

S.  M. 


*  Death  has  not  merely  the  authority  of  Pierce  Egan,  Lexicogra- 
pher and  Chronicler  to  '  The  Fancy,'  for  vising  the  scientific  terms 
here  introduced,  and  specially  marked  for  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated, 
but  he  is  also  sanctioned  by  the  classic  Blackwood,  in  whose  pages  may 
be  found  some  high  encomiums  on  the  transcendant  merits  of  that  elo- 
quent style  of  cotnposition  vulgarly  called  Jlask  !  .'  And  is  not  its 
use  also  sanctioned  by  the  sweetest  of  all  sweet  poets — the  •  bard  of 
Erin  V — What  better  precedents  would  the  Critics  have  I 


209 


THE    FANCY. 


With  a  disposition  little  inclined  to  the  violent, 
either  in  exercise  or  in  amusement,  I  am  sometimes 
prevailed  on  to  mix  with  the  multitude,  and  am  then 
generally  carried  along  with  the  impulse  of  feeling 
and  curiosity  excited  by  the  occasion.  I  have  an 
aversion  to  all  brutal  sports  (as  they  are  called),  yet 
I  nevertheless  make  a  distinction  between  those 
which  are  voluntary,  and  those  which  are  inflicted : 
by  the  voluntary,  I  mean  pugilistic  combats,  in  con- 
tradistinction to  those  imposed  on  animals,  which, 
having  no  choice  of  their  own,  are  instigated  by  the 
will  of  others  who  have  the  power  over  them. 

Having  accepted  the  invitation  of  a  friend  to  wit- 
ness some  of  those  trials  of  skill  in  the  noble  art  of 
self-defence,  as  practised  at  the  Fives  Court,  I  pre- 
pared my  mind  for  the  expected  novelty,  and  bent 
my  attention  to  the  nature  of  what  I  was  to  expect. 

I  was  perfectly  aware  that  there  was  nothing  new 
p 


210  death's  doings. 

or  peculiar  to  the  present  day  in  the  practice,  of 
which  I  was  about  to  visit  the  exhibition.  I  was 
only  puzzled  at  the  name  chosen  to  designate  the 
amateurs  in  the  science  of  boxing.  To  be  one  of  the 
"  Fancy"  might,  by  a  foreigner,  be  readily  supposed 
to  apply  to  something  of  the  imagination, — some 
matters  of  taste  or  virtu,  in  which  gentlemen  of  fancy 
were  engaged.  I  had  met  with  fancy  bakers,  fancy 
brushes,  and  fancy  dresses ;  but  of  the  application  of 
such  a  word  to  the  sports  of  the  Bear  Garden!  It 
was  at  least  an  odd  fancy. 

The  entrance  to  the  Fives  Court  was  surrounded 
by  expectant  groups  of  spectators,  eager  to  catch  a 
glance  of  those  who  entered,  happy  if  they  could  re- 
cognise a  Cribb,  a  Belcher,  a  Spring,  or  any  of  the 
other  noted  bruisers,  as  he  made  his  way  to  the 
chosen  spot;  and  envying  those  whose  means  could 
procure  them  admission  to  so  gratifying  a  spectacle. 

After  securing  our  pockets  as  well  as  we  could, 
we  elbowed  our  way  through  the  motley  crowd  with- 
out, to  as  motley  a  crowd  within.  By  this  time  my 
own  eagerness  became  apparent,  and  I  was  glad  to 
find  we  were  in  time,  for  I  was  as  fearful  of  missing 
a  blow  as  any  of  the  combatants  could  be.     Before 


THE    FANCY.  211 

the  sparring  began,  I  employed  myself  in  observing 
the  various  company  brought  together  on  this  inter- 
esting occasion;  and  nothing  could  exhibit  more  of 
contrast  than  this  mixture  of  high  and  low,  from  the 
well-dressed  amateur  to  the  aproned  cobbler.  The 
hum  of  conversation  and  the  shifting  of  stations 
were  at  length  broken  and  interrupted  by  notes  of 
preparation.     The  acting  manager  of  the  pugilistic 

stage  announced  that and were  about 

to  set-to,  and,  calling  them  forward,  they  came  from 
among  the  crowd,  with  small  marks  of  likelihood 
either  in  their  dress  or  address :  the  elder,  a  man 
little  short  of  fifty,  mean  in  his  appearance,  and 
with  a  head  so  bald,  that  it  might  well  be  imagined  a 
warm  night-cap  would  be  better  suited  to  it  than  an 
exposure  to  the  buffetings  of  his  antagonist ;  who 
appeared  much  younger,  but  whose  habiliments  and 
demeanour  afforded  sufficient  evidence  that  he  was 
one  of  the  same  class  and  character. 

They  made  their  bow  in  the  true  style  of  the 
Fancy,  and,  after  having  had  their  gloves  tied  on  by 
the  aforesaid  manager,  were  left  to  pursue  their 
sport,  divested  of  their  clothes,  which  showed  the 
body  to  great  advantage  even  in  men  not  of  the  best 
make ;    and  the   animation   of  the   countenance  at 

p2 


212  death's  doings. 

once  obliterated  the  character  of  meanness.  The 
head  thrown  back,  and  the  chest  forward ;  the  wary 
eye,  the  compressed  lips,  and  the  firm  station  of  the 
legs,  bespoke  their  practice.  A  short  interval  was 
spent  in  feints  and  manoeuvring,  when  blows  were 
given  and  parried  with  much  dexterity,  succeeding  in 
rapidity  till  fresh  breathing  was  required:  several 
rounds  went  on  in  this  way,  till,  as  if  l>y  mutual 
consent,  the  first  pair  of  pugilists  made  their  retiring 
bow,  amidst  the  shouts  of  the  company  and  the  rat- 
tling of  pence,  which,  to  the  eternal  disgrace  of 
heroism,  were  carefully  picked  up  "and  pocketed. 

There  now  followed  several  others,  most  of  them 
very  young;  these  sprigs  of  laurel  showed  but  little 
science  compared  with  the  combatants  whom  I  have 
described,  their  principal  object  being,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, to  lay  on  blows  till  they  were  out  of 
breath.  We  came  at  length  to  the  scientific  and 
skilful  men  who  had  distinguished  themselves  in  the 
severest  conflicts. — Belcher  and  Pullen  were  an- 
nounced. They  ascended  the  stage  with  a  bounding 
elasticity,  and,  merely  throwing  off  their  coats  and 
waistcoats,  they  went  to  work  with  a  lightness  and 
dexterity  which  gave  a  grace  and.  interest  to  the 
sport.     It  need  hardly  be  mentioned,  that  here  no 


THE  FANCY.  213 

largess  of  copper  coin  (which  ia  this  elegant  school 
I  learnt  was  denominated  browns)  was  offered. 

Richmond  the  Black  and  Isle  of  Wight  Hall 
came  next.  The  former  I  had  observed  among  the 
spectators :  his  countenance  had  an  expression  of 
menace  even  in  his  ordinary  address,  but  when 
stripped  and  opposed  to  his  man  it  assumed  a  higher 
character ;  steady  and  wary  at  the  onset,  it  became 
gradually  darker,  and,  as  the  rounds  increased,  was 
ferocious  to  a  degree.  This  appeared  the  more 
striking,  from  the  contrast  it  afforded,  both  in  expres- 
sion and  colour,  to  Hall,  whose  features  never  once 
Jost  the  temper  and  good  humour  with  which  he  set 
out,  or  rather  set-to. 

Names  of  note  continued  to  be  given,  and  frames 
of  the  finest  athlectic  proportion  divided  the  attention, 
and,  to  the  eye  of  the  anatomist  or  the  artist,  afforded 
subjects  of  the  first  class  for  contemplation.  The 
most  manly  forms  among  the  antique  statues  can 
boast  of  nothing  superior  to  what  was  here  exhibited; 
and  to  the  flexibility  and  varied  action  of  the  mus- 
cles, a  light  and  shade,  and  colour  were  added,  from 
which  the  painter  might  have  taken  his  finest  tints. 


214  death's  doings. 

Nearly  three  hours  were  spent  in  witnessing  these 
exploits,  when  my  friend  and  I  thought  we  had  seen 
enough  to  satisfy  our  curiosity.  Upon  our  legs 
during  the  whole  time,  the  sameness  now  became  te- 
dious, and  we  left  the  Court  a  little  before  the  sports 
of  the  day  were  brought  to  a  close. 

The  impressions  made  upon  my  mind  by  the  no- 
velty of  the  spectacle  remained  for  some  time ;  and, 
in  the  reflections  which  followed,  I  clearly  convinced 
myself  that,  whether  it  elevated  or  degraded  the  na- 
tional character — whether  it  gave  to  Englishmen  true 
courage  or  ferocity — still  it  was  not  an  amusement 
suited  to  my  "  fancy."  But  so  much  has  been  said, 
and  so  ably  said,  both  for  and  against  the  "  manly 
science,"  that  I  dare  not  trust  myself  in  delivering 
an  opinion  upon  that  which,  while  it  has  found  ad- 
vocates and  patrons  even  among  the  most  distin- 
guished of  our  senators,  has  been  denounced  by 
others  as  a  blackguard  and  vicious  pastime,  calcu- 
lated not  only  to  check  the  growth  of  all  that  is 
amiable  in  the  human  heart,  but  to  sink  man  below 
the  level  of  a  brute. 

A  Querist. 


BE  ATlil 


A  DRAMATIC     SCENE 


215 

DEATH: 

A  DRAMATIC  SCENE. 


{By  the  Author  of  "  The  Arabs.'') 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Melpomene — Thalia — Death. 


Supposed  Scene. — A  dark  and  cavernous  foreground,  soften- 
ing into  a  beautiful  landscape  in  the  distance.  Time — 
Twilight. 

Enter  Melpomene  and  Thalia. 

MELPOMENE. 

The  night  is  waning,  and  the  moon-eyed  owl 

Long  since  hath  hooted  from  her  lone  retreat 

The  last  dark  hour  which  suits  my  walks  with  Death. 

All  now  is  fresh  and  fair;  the  o'er- watching  heavens 

Are  full  of  eyes,  and  see  too  much  of  earth : 

The  sullen  ocean,  in  its  hollow  bed. 

Lies  hushed ;  or  doth  but  murmur  in  its  sleep. 

Dreaming  of  storms :  the  clouds,  that  late  were  big, 

Have  proved  abortive ;  and  yon  gleamy  dawn 

Forebodes  a  day  that  suits  not  with  my  mood. 


216  death's  doings. 

O  Death!  my  lonely  bosom's  only  love. 
Why  dost  thou  linger? 

THALIA. 

Nay,  my  sister  sad, 
Prithee  compose  that  rueful  face  of  thine. 
Lest  it  affect  that  buoyancy  of  heart 
Which  makes  the  world  so  beautiful  to  me. 
Behold— the  day-god  lifts  his  radiant  eye. 
And  looks  upon  the  kindling  prospect,  through 
The  blue  and  golden  lattice  of  the  morn ! 
O  how  his  presence  will  inspire  my  love, — 
Gay,  blithesome  Life ! — the  wild — the  young — the  free 
The  ever-laughing  idol  of  my  soul ! 
Who,  scorning  sleep,  and  seeking  endless  change. 
With  mirth  and  frolic,  quips  and  jocund  pranks. 
Roves  through  the  busy  world,  from  peep  of  dawn, 
'Till  morn  again  outstares  the  winking  stars. 

MELPOMENE. 

Catching  at  bawbles— gewgaws  of  the  brain — 
That  press  to  air. 

THALIA. 

Plucking  the  poisoned  stings 
Wherewith  thy  hand  would  fence  the  honey'd  sweets 


death:  a  dramatic  scene.  217 

Hived  in  the  bosom  of  the  breathing  world. 
Why  war  with  nature — hang  the  sun  with  crape — 
And  put  the  saddened  earth  in  mourning-weeds? 
Mine  is  the  balm — the  heart's  catholicon — 
Which  springs  from  every  gushing  fount  of  joy, 
In  every  season,  and  in  every  scene; 
But  cbiefest  in  the  gay  metropolis. 

MELPOMENE. 

The  living  cemetery,  where  men  walk 

Shrouded  with  woes;  where  wild  Perversion  reigns; 

Where  Misery  appears  in  borrowed  smiles. 

Virtue  in  rags,  and  Infamy  in  robes ; 

And  each  and  all,  according  to  their  garb. 

Meet  scorn  or  homage. 

THALIA. 

Say  it  is  the  scene 
Of  Fashion,  Splendour,  Eloquence,  and  Grace; 
The  fount  of  Wit,  the  focus  of  Delight. 

MELPOMENE. 

And  what  are  all  the  gaieties  of  earth?— 
Turmoil  and  Trouble,  Megrim  and  Despair, 
Tricked  in  the  gaudy  trappings  of  Deceit. 


218  death's  doings. 

THALIA. 

These  are  thy  minions,  mingling  'midst  the  crowd 

Of  better  spirits  that  attend  my  smiles. 

Even  the  follies  of  mankind  present 

An  ever-changing  aliment  for  Mirth; 

Bustle  imparts  an  impetus  to  Life; 

And  Life,  through  all  his  Protean  attributes. 

Gives  fire  and  brilliancy  to  all  around. 

Together  oft  we  make  our  gay  career : — 

If  'chance,  at  court,  in  rich  embroidered  vest. 

We're  doomed  to  wade  through  billow^s  of  brocade. 

To  catch  the  corner  of  a  royal  eye ; 

If  at  some  ball,  or  festival  or  rout. 

Too  w^armly  pressed  to  feel  ourselves  at  home. 

We  pant  through  hours  of  elegant  un-ease ; 

If,  for  the  theatre,  (where  thou  and  I 

Preside  alternately,)  we  melt  through  crowds 

Of  beaus  and  flambeaus,  to  more  crowded  tiers. 

And  that  to  list  some  fine  apostrophe, 

Or  pretty — witty — ditty  of  the  day. 

Crushed  by  the  roar  of  dissonant  applause ; — 

These  may  be  follies ;  yet  they  pass,  with  Life, 

As  things  of  course — the  mere  exuberance 

Of  that  full  feeling  which  cements  mankind. 

Rove  we  the  City's  mart — the  busy  'Change — 


DEATH  :    A  DRAMATIC  SCENE.  219 

That  Babylon,  confused  with  many  tongues, 
No  trade,  no  project,  but  presents  some  theme 
To  feed  the  comic  humour  of  my  vein. 
And  then  the  tender  passion!  how  replete 
With  pleasant  thoughts  and  sprightly  incidents! 
This  is  the  master-spring,  for  there  would  be 
No  love  of  Life,  without  a  life  of  Love. 

MELPOMENE. 

A  dream !  a  dream ! 

THALIA. 

'Twere  better  far  to  dream. 
And  think  us  bless'd,  than  wake,  like  thee,  to  woe  : 
All  nature  glows  with  universal  love : 
All  nature  smiles; — shall  we  then  frown  on  her? 
The  sky's  blue  ocean,  and  the  deep's  blue  heaven. 
The  laughing  valley,  and  the  mountain  free. 
Invite  us  to  a  gaiety  of  heart. 
And  why  was  man  made  noble — woman  fair? 
Is  beauty  not  a  treasure  to  be  prized? 

MELPOMENE. 

By  eyes  that  fade  as  soon; — dizzy  to-day 
With  dreamy  longings,  and  to-morrow  dim 
With  doting  age: — what  are  thy  treasures  then? 


220  death's  doings. 

THALIA. 

May  they  not  live  in  glowing  portraiture. 
Ages  of  splendour  and  unfading  youth? 
Art  thus  can  triumph,  by  its  magic  power. 
E'en  over  Death's  inexorable  hand. 
Many  there  be,  bright  beauties  of  past  years. 
To  whom  the  world  makes  daily  pilgrimage. 
Looking  on  eyes — with  centuries  between — 
Still  clear  as  in  the  breathing  May  of  life. 
The  fadeless  locks,  the  richly  ruffled  dress. 
The  sweet  unruffled  softness  of  the  face, 
Seem  so  like  present  life — 

MELPOMENE. 

Hist!  hist! — becomes! 
The  king  of  kings ! — but  yet  he  marks  us  not. 

Enter  Death. 

DEATH. 

Man  builds  the  Pyramid,  the  ant  its  hill; — 
And  this,  perhaps,  the  wonder  of  the  two : 
Yet  more  I  marvel  that  creation's  lord 
Should  ape  the  grandeur  of  creative  power. 
And  rear  these  sculptured  mountains  but  to  show 
His  own  contrasted  littleness.     Vain  fool ! 


death:  a  dramatic  scene.  221 

Could  he  outlive  the  simorg's  countless  years. 
And  close,  like  that,  his  dreamy  eyes  on  me. 
What  were  his  wisdom?     I  and  hoary  Time, 
Mine  old  coadjutor,  at  last  must  sweep 
Him  and  his  wonder-works,  alike,  to  earth. 
Pale,  pining  atrophy,  and  bloat  disease; 
Murder,  giim  casualty,  and  penal  blood ; 
Immedicable  anguish,  stealing  life. 
Drop — drop  by  drop;    phrenetic  suicide. 
Wide-wasting  war,  and  sap-consuming  age — 
These  are  the  minions  that  attend  my  power ; 
And  pride,  ambition — all  must  bow  to  them, 
Down  to  the  dust.     Man's  grasping  mind  may  pile 
Pelions  on  Ossas,  and,  with  giant  stride. 
Strive  at  the  inaccessible; — my  hand 
Shall  hurl  the  huge  recoiling  mountains  back. 
And  whelm  him  in  the  ruin.     When  I  climb 
'Tis  by  an  escalade  of  thrones  on  thrones — 
Seats  of  the  long  succeeding  Pharaohs,  or 
The  more  imperial  Caesars,  from  whose  brows 
I  spurn  the  shivered  diadems  to  dust. 
What  have  I  done !    how  much  remains  to  do! 
Where'er  I've  trod,  all  sleep  the  sleep  profound ; 
But  I  am  restless,  and  must  never  sleep 
'Till  all  shall  wake;  and  this  brief  episode 
In  the  vast  history  of  the  universe. 


222  death's  doings. 

Shall  be  out-blotted,  as  a  needless  thing. 

If  aught  could  move  my  lipless  jaws  to  mirth, 

'Twould  be  to  see  these  creatures  of  an  hour 

Fanning  the  flame  of  glory  'till  the  fire 

Consumes  themselves: — how  glorious  to  become 

Unconscious  of  the  honours  they  have  won ! — 

To  carve  their  names  in  granite,  and  exchange 

The  breath  of  life  for  stones,  o'er  which  decay 

Soon  throws  the  shadow  of  its  dusty  veil! 

Yet  all  this  works  to  one  great  end  of  mine. 

Red  is  the  soil  where  grows  the  laurel-tree, 

That  Upas  of  the  earth,  round  which  men  fall 

In  undistinguished  multitudes; — for  why? 

Just  or  unjust  the  cause,  I  reck  it  not; 

Yet  greatest  oft  the  bale  when  cause  is  least: 

Torrents  of  grief  have  flowed  for  Victory's  smile; 

Oceans  of  blood  for  Beauty's  single  tear. 

Some  few  have  been  of  merited  renown 

In  war  and  peace,  whose  deeds  shall  long  survive. 

Like  mighty  swimmers  'gainst  the  stream  of  time; 

But  these  must  sink  at  last: — nay,  all  alike — 

Men — cities — nations — pass,  in  turn,  away. 

A  shapeless  mound  is  all  of  Babylon: 

Tyre — Sydon — Carthage — vapours  long  exhaled : 

The  proud  Acropolis,  the  eye  of  Greece, 

Is  dim  with  age :  the  city  of  the  sun. 


DEATH  :    A  DRAMATIC  SCENE.  223 

Old  Thebes,  is  silent;  for  its  hundred  gates 
Were  never  barred  against  the  flood  of  time : 
E'en  phoenix  Rome  on  half  its  ashes  sleeps — 

[Sees  the  others. 
My  Melpomene! 

MELPOMENE. 

My  liege! — where  hast  thou  been? 

DEATH. 

Amongst  the  catacombs,  where  I  have  heaped 

My  mummied  treasures ;  and  in  many  a  vast 

Necropolis,  my  cities  of  the  dead; 

And  through  the  sepulchres  of  kings,  where  now 

Moulder  alike  their  sceptres  and  their  bones : 

And  I  have  visited  my  harvest-fields 

Of  Marathon,  and  Leuctra,  and  Platea; 

Cannae,  Pharsalia,  and  the  thousands  more. 

Which  nameless  millions  have  manured  with  Ijlood ; — 

Scenes  of  my  glory,  where  I  warred  on  war, 

Armipotent — sole  victor — and  the  last 

Sole  refuge  of  the  vanquished;  for  I  love 

To  whet  mine  appetite  with  old  exploits 

That  stimulate  to  new.     Then  I  have  made 

Long  journeys  on  the  hot  sirocco's  wings. 

To  feast  me  in  the  cities  of  the  plague ; 


224  death's  doings. 

And  I  have  ridden  on  the  red  simmoom, 

Across  the  stifled  desert;  and  have  swept 

The  ocean's  bosom  with  the  lightning's  blast, 

Gulphing  whole  navies  in  the  yawning  deep: 

On  shore  I  have  beheld  the  troubled  earth 

Heaving  around  me ;  and  the  tumbling  dome. 

The  reeling  column,  and  the  staggering  tower, 

All  drunk  with  ruin ;  whilst  I,  sole,  bestrode 

The  sudden  mountain  and  the  black  abyss. 

But  wherefore  thus  recount  where  I  have  been? 

Where  have  I  not  been  present  ?  what  have  not  done 

For  thee,  Melpomene  ? — Come  to  my  arms  ! 

And,  Thalia !  give  to  me  thy  playful  hand : 

Nay,  shrink  not;  though  it  shall  be  mine  at  last. 

Despite  thy  lover;  and  though  oft  my  touch 

May  meet  with  thine  amidst  thy  gayest  hours ; 

Yet  shall  my  grasp  ne'er  freeze  thy  glowing  blood, 

'Till  I  myself  prepare  to  lift  the  crown 

From  oflf  my  brows,  and,  with  my  sceptre  broke. 

Recline  me,  with  thy  sister  and  thyself. 

Beneath  the  fragments  of  the  ruined  world — 

The  only  fitting  Monument  of  Death. 

H.  A.  D. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


3  0112  078808547